Canta y No Llores
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Two months after the Janus List disaster, the unthinkable happens. The team soldiers on, straight into a case that pushes everyone to their limit. Started off canon, ended up AU, and tied for the win - Gen/Case-Related - at the 2008 Numb3rs Awards.
1. Prólogo

**Disclaimer: **Anyone you recognize, I don't own. Anyone you don't, I do. :-D

**Appreciation:** Many thanks to Zubeneschamali ("Z") for beta-reading.

**Summary:** A mere two months after the Janus List disaster, the unthinkable happens. The team, still dealing with the repercussions of Colby Granger's treason, has to soldier on - straight into a case that will push everyone to their limit.

* * *

**CANTA Y NO LLORES**

**Prologue**: _No me queda ninguna esperanza_

Don Eppes shivered. It was always so ridiculously cold in these places. Oh well, that was the "130 rule" for you. It was Don's secret air conditioning theory: the indoor and outdoor temperatures had to add up to 130. He figured the idea had to have some merit, especially here in sunny Southern California where summertime either meant cloudy mornings and awesome beach weather or scorching dry heat that made you wake up with chapped lips and a headache, wishing you didn't have to work. And since it was a strength-sapping, brain-frying 113 degrees out here in the Mojave Desert, it would naturally be an equally miserable 17 degrees inside. At least it felt like 17 degrees. Brrr.

Don closed his eyes and tried to focus. He had to stop thinking like Charlie. He had a job to do right now, and he had to do it professionally and calmly.

He rubbed his hands together a few times and jammed them into the pockets of his jeans. Fellow agents Megan Reeves, David Sinclair, and Liz Warner were lined up next to him like they were waiting to see the principal after misbehaving on the school yard. There wasn't anything in the slate-gray tiled room to distract anybody, so they gave in to their internal jitters and began to fidget. Megan stared straight ahead at the large window (its blue curtain drawn) and zipped up her jacket. A muscle kept ticking away in David's jaw, which was enough of a body language cue that Megan hadn't said a word to him since they got here. And Liz, standing right next to Don, crossed her arms and looked a bit bored. It was clear from her straight back and steely gaze that she was only here for moral support, and equally clear who she was supporting.

The intercom startled them all.

"Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?"

Don steeled himself and pressed the button on the wall, since he was nearest. "Go ahead," he said.

Megan widened her stance just a little. David looked up. The curtain opened. An elderly man in blue scrubs, his snowy-white military haircut and reading glasses sparkling in the harsh light, shuffled into view leading a tarp-covered gurney. He parked it gently in front of the window and wandered over to the left side of the glass, where he pressed the button again.

"Come closer, if you would," he said gently, and watched Don comply. "Thank you."

Without preamble, the elderly medical examiner walked over to the head of the gurney and peeled back the tarp. Don got a good look – a better look than he wanted to, certainly. He stared down at the floor and sighed through his nose. A moment later he felt Liz gently grip his arm and pull him back. Don watched as Megan and David walked up to the window together. Neither of their expressions changed, but Megan reached out blindly and grabbed David's hand. It seemed that each was trying to outdo the other for gripping power.

The corpse was waxy and bluish, the familiar California tan obliterated by the fluorescent lights. Someone had closed those warm hazel eyes. A ragged Y-incision marred a once impressive set of pectorals, and it had been stitched shut with thick black thread. The one saving grace, if there was any to be found, was that he still looked like himself. It hadn't been long since the incident – Don had gotten the call at nine this morning about the riot the night before. He'd done all the appropriate things like alerting his colleagues and informing Charlie, and the shrunken FBI team (plus Liz) had immediately set out in Don's SUV for the high desert.

Don looked at his team. They all found his eyes and nodded. The medical examiner looked at him expectantly through the glass and clicked on the intercom.

"Agent? Do you have a positive ID?"

Don pressed the buzzer.

"Yes sir," he said sadly. "That man is former Special Agent Colby Granger of the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

* * *

This whole damn thing had been a painful mess from the get-go. 

About six weeks earlier when Colby Granger had been court-martialed, his confinement had been a choice between a USMC brig in Long Beach or the RCF at Edwards Air Force Base, way out in the Antelope Valley. The court chose Edwards. The regional confinement facility on the base played host to numerous military criminals who were either serving time or biding time on their way to other less joyful places, such as the U.S. Disciplinary Barracks in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Like Dwayne Carter.

Dwayne had been sentenced to death for espionage but while he'd appealed repeatedly, he'd only managed to delay the inevitable. He had a one-way ticket to the Sunflower State on August 3rd and a bedroom with iron bars was waiting for him in the basement level of The Castle. Eventually there would be a tango with potassium chloride, but that was many months away. Possibly years, if he kept up the appeals process.

Colby was to be transferred on the same plane. His espionage had begun while he was still a soldier, so the military had gone after him all guns blazing; they court-martialed him and sought the death penalty. In accordance with the UCMJ Colby had a trial in front of judge and jury and was instructed to plead not guilty, even though his facial expression at the time – that hangdog look he'd perfected in Don's office – said he would much rather plead the opposite. But he did as instructed and the trial began.

It went on too long, as these things often do. Colby spent much of it in the Mojave. Back in L.A. a storm of conjecture raged regarding his motives, during stolen moments at the office or over the occasional weekend poker game. Don surmised he was in it for the money. Charlie hesitantly agreed. David was mostly just pissed off about the whole thing, although when he came to a conclusion, it was generally in line with Don.

Megan, for the whole of the trial, was the only dissenter.

She kept insisting that Colby was innocent. Something about this was wrong. Don privately assumed she was doing it as a way of rationalizing her mistake, blaming herself for not seeing who Colby was, since as a profiler she "should have made that catch." (Her words.) He didn't believe for a second that Colby was innocent, and he had extreme faith in Megan's profiling skills. But since Megan held the opposite opinion right now, as well as a black belt in Krav Maga, he did his best to keep his mouth shut and give her some space.

"_I reviewed those tapes of Colby in the interview room, Don. Something is off. He just … gave in. He accepted his fate and went away."_

"_Aw, Megan not this ag–" _

"_No, listen to me! It's the same kind of crap now! He's just … he's just taking this, like this is right, or acceptable, or that he deserves to die for planting a bug in somebody's couch."_

_Don did the usual: The lip-lick. The forehead knead. The "All right, you know what?"_

"_He sucks, Don." _

"… _Excuse me?" _

"_As a bad guy. He sucks. That's what it is. He's just no good at it! He's got this … I don't know, sincerity streak. Maybe it's the voice, or the way he holds himself, but he's just a miserable villain. I don't buy him as a spy."_

"_Megan, stop," Don said gently. "Look, I hate to remind you of this, but the mark of a really good spy is that you don't buy him as a spy. … He played you. He played all of us."_

The jury agreed. On July 18th, two months to the day of Colby's arrest at the beach house, the trial concluded without much fanfare at three in the afternoon. The foreman stood, the judge read the verdict, and Colby Granger was sentenced to death. When asked if he would appeal, he just shook his head "no."

His position over the next week didn't waver. It actually got to the point where even David had tried to reason with him, without any success. After all, there was only so much the FBI agents could stand by and watch. He'd been their friend, spy or not, and past feelings were hard to let go of. Exhaustion was also probably hindering their judgment a little. The court-martial process had been taxing, what with the team being called into court to testify throughout the proceedings despite their heavy caseload. Charlie had even been called in to testify at one point.

Don could still recall his brother's choice of clothes for the occasion; that outfit was hard to forget. He'd come upon Charlie in the men's room at the courthouse right before his younger brother was set to testify. The clerk had told everyone to come in business attire. It was just the two of them, so Don had gawked freely at his sibling's interpretation of that instruction.

"_What are __**you**__ lookin' at?"_

Charlie tended to favor the "I rolled out of bed and threw on whatever was nearby" look – his wacky t-shirt choices had evolved into something of an art form over the years – but _this_ … this was impressive. Brown plaid coat with a red/yellow/green striped shirt. Dark grey patterned slacks and orange sneakers. Apparently Charlie's strategy for getting through his deposition unscathed was to blind the lawyers, as well as everyone else in the court room. And then Don remembered that aside from teaching and consulting, his little brother was knee-deep in some life-consuming math experiment at CalSci. This certainly explained (but hardly excused) his unshaven face, the bags under his eyes, and the wild unkempt mess of curls on his head. He looked like a crazy person.

Don told him so. Charlie, sleep-deprived and irritated, shoved him and called him a bossy jerk. So Don shoved Charlie back and told him he was cuckoo and colorblind and before they knew it they were having something of a wrestling match in front of the urinals and hurling insults at each other. It took them a few moments to mutually agree to step back, let go of each other's shirts, straighten their clothes out and gain some control.

* * *

And none of it had mattered in the end. Colby Granger was history. Finally, lethally, he'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, two days before he was set to transfer to Kansas to await his execution. A riot had broken out in the cafeteria last night and in the fracas somebody had shanked him in the chest with a sharpened piece of a lunch tray. According to the report, he'd bled out in the base hospital's ER. Dwayne Carter, ironically enough, was somewhere in this morgue too. He'd been shot in the face during the riot in the course of attacking a correctional officer. 

Don released his grip on the buzzer. All was quiet for a moment while the curtain closed. Megan turned away from the others and David stared at the floor. The pop of the intercom made everybody jump. The elderly ME's voice crackled through one more time.

"I'm sorry to bother you folks again, but did he have any family? Anyone I can notify?"

Don pressed the button. "Not that we know of," he said.

It was true. Don had gone heavy on the threats when the team had cornered Colby in the interrogation room, but nobody had really done any digging. As far as any of them could tell, the only people who remotely qualified as Colby Granger's family were standing here in this room – betrayed, sad, tired … and cold.

* * *

This Spanish title is pronounced "No meh KEH-da neen-GOO-na ess-peh-RAHN-sa." It means, "There is no hope for me." 


	2. Uno

**Dedication –** I hereby dedicate this tale to all the anonymous reviewers, a.k.a. "the anonymites," since I can thank you no other way. Cheers, folks. :-D

* * *

**Chapter One**: _Dime, guapa_

It was five o'clock when the bell rang. Charlie opened the oak door and was not terribly surprised to see Megan Reeves standing under the porch, hands gripping her opposite elbows, a line of tension around her eyes and beyond that, no emotion on her face. Strained and contained – it was not a good look on her.

"Hi Charlie," she said quietly.

They shared a large pause and she opened her mouth to say something; whatever it was it looked to be painful. Fortunately, Charlie had a rare but welcome moment of social insight and realized what she needed. Don's phone call that morning had been a kick in the gut, and he hadn't even been that close to Colby. He could hardly imagine how terrible Megan was feeling.

"Do you know how to get to Lake from here?" he asked, cutting her off.

She blinked. "Sure."

Charlie nodded. "Good. Get on Lake and take it all the way north. Cross the 134 and shoot up through Altadena until you run out of road. I mean that literally. Just drive north until you have to turn or hit the mountain." Megan nodded. "There's two ways to go from there. The street hooks to the left, but on your right is a gate. It's a huge wrought-iron thing. It looks like the entrance to a wilderness preserve. You can't miss it."

He fished around in his back pocket, coming up with a large key and handing it to the mystified FBI agent. Megan turned it over in her hands.

"That's for the padlock. Try to get in quickly. Trust me, you don't want hikers asking questions. Anyway, lock up behind you and take the road – and go slow, it's terrible – until it branches off into dirt."

"How far is that?" she asked.

"About a mile and a half. When you hit the fork in the road, take the left route and follow it for about two and a half more miles. You'll know you're on the right track because it's shady." He gulped, hoping Larry would forgive him for this one day. "The um, the monastery is at the end of the path. It's Buddhist. They call it the House of Light."

Megan gave him a slight smile and bit her lip. "Got it." She turned to go.

Charlie spoke before he could stop himself. "Hey, Megan?"

She looked back. "Yeah?"

Charlie shifted to the other foot and twisted the dishtowel he was holding. "If they don't let you see him for some reason … my father and I are making dinner."

She nodded. When she answered him her voice was soft. "You're a sweetheart, Charlie. Thanks."

She walked away fast and by the time she'd reached her car, she was jogging. Charlie closed the door.

* * *

Megan followed Charlie's instructions, and Lake Avenue got dustier and dustier the further north she went. When she reached the outskirts of Altadena, right at the foot of the mountains, she saw the gate on her right. It was gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Thankfully, the road beyond it was free of hikers, and not a single car had followed her up this far. She was alone. She slipped out of her car and furtively opened the gate, swinging it just wide enough to drive through. She stopped her car only once to lock the gate behind her before she took off down the road. 

The path was exactly what Charlie had described – a decrepit cobblestone roadway that wound like a snake through the dusty brush and had clearly seen better days. It was bumpy and gritty, and she had to crawl along at about eight miles an hour to make the jostling bearable. At least the sun was on its way down. The blasting August heat was retreating just a bit.

The greenery was more like brownery around here. Fire season was in full swing; the brush was turning to tinder. The car wheels crunched over the gravel and she passed scraggly bushes, rocks, open spaces, patches of pine, until she quite suddenly ran out of road. The patchy cobblestones just … stopped. The path branched in two. She took the left fork, now bumping even more over the dirt, and glanced around her.

It was like driving in one of those car commercials. Trees swallowed up the road on all sides, and shafts of orange and reddish light peaked through the spaces between them. She nudged the sedan along, entranced a little by her surroundings. Of course, about two miles into her journey along this quiet road she started getting nervous, worried that perhaps she'd taken the wrong way. She kept crawling over the dirt path and chewing her lip until a flash of something like glass in the distance caught her eye. Heedless of the bumping, she sped up.

There it was. Dead ahead lay a small cluster of beige, low-slung buildings, the outer ones exposed to the sun and baking like pots in a kiln. The trees suddenly fell away into open country. The monastery was nestled right against the side of the mountain. Agave and reedy bushes with purple flowers dotted the ground around the buildings. There was a fence, some water pipes sticking up next to the closest building and absurdly, a small and nearly empty parking lot.

Megan easily found a space. She put her jeep in park, took a deep breath, and walked with purpose to the gate. The sun was seeping in through her shirt. Locating the buzzer, she pressed the button and waited for an answer while some flies buzzed around the ivy. The answer seemed to be taking its time. In an attempt to do something with the sudden shakes in her hands, she waved off a passing cloud of gnats and stared at the wrought-iron words scrawled across the top of the monastery's entryway: _Peace Inside Achieves Peace Outside_. Appropriate.

"Hello?" a man's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Hello," Megan said to the box, suddenly feeling weird and unsure about this, now that she was here. "I'd like to speak to Larry Fleinhardt. Is that possible?"

"Um … Larry is a quiet soul. I have a feeling he doesn't wish to be disturbed."

Megan gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, summoning patience. Larry – his sweetness, his friendliness, his total, inexplicable _weirdness_ – damn it, he was just beyond that gate, and she had to get through. She'd driven out here on the complete faith that her personal brilliant physicist would be able to make sense out of this senseless tragedy. She had to talk to him; it was either that or explode.

There was a hiss of static. The person on the other end hadn't broken the connection.

"I know. Please," she said. "Tell him … tell him Megan's here to see him and…" She cleared her throat. "And he has stardust on his shoulder. Please tell him that."

"I'll do that right away," the voice in the box said. "One moment."

The static stopped. Presumably whoever she was talking to inside had gone to relay her message, and she stared down at the dusty rocks under her shoes, letting her eyes burn a little and waiting for an answer. It was their secret code. Back when they'd first started dating Larry had insisted on coming up with some verbal cues that only they would understand, for privacy and security reasons. They'd hashed it all out on the tiny balcony of Megan's apartment one evening while sitting together on a dusty workout bench (she jokingly referred to it as her "patio furniture"), holding hands and staring up at the night sky.

"_What's the code for 'Let's go out?"_

"_I think I'll stay home and watch Nova," Larry said. _

_Megan laughed. "What about 'You're in danger?'"_

"_Mars is bright," he replied, without missing a beat. Obviously he'd given this some thought. _

"_All right," she said, getting into it. "What's 'Everything's perfect?'" _

"_Oh, you can just say that one with your eyes," Larry said a little dreamily._

_Megan laughed again and snuggled against him. "Okay, let's go the opposite way. Say there's some terrible crisis and we've been split up by some … renegade gravitational force or … something. What's the code for, 'Everything's gone to hell and I need you right now?'"_

"_Tell me I have stardust on my shoulder," Larry answered her in all seriousness. "But I have to warn you about that sort of logic, Megan."_

"_What logic?"_

"_My point exactly," Larry said gently. "You see, the hypothetical situation you've just posed to me is predicated on the assumption that I'll allow myself to be separated from you. And … well, I won't. So you won't ever have to use that one."_

"Miss?" the voice on the intercom said.

Megan leaned in to the receiver a little closer than necessary. "Yes?"

"I'll buzz you in. Just walk along the stones and directly ahead to the porch. I'll meet you there."

The gate buzzed and Megan pushed it open, whooshing air out of her lungs that she didn't even realize she'd been holding in. She walked cautiously across the large flat stones that formed a walkway and ended up standing under a small porch of the main building which, she assumed, was for the administration of the monastery. A man opened the door with a friendly smile. He was about her height, balding and spectacled, dressed in a flowing sand-colored robe and sandals and holding a folded bunch of fabric that was the same shade as what he wore.

"Welcome," he said. "I must say, it's been very nice having Larry with us. He's such a peaceful presence. We've actually been hoping he'd join our order, but he informed me that this arrangement was only temporary."

Megan nodded politely. "May I see him?"

"Yes, but first you have to shed your outer clothes and put this on," the monk said, politely holding up the bundle. "Sorry, but rules are rules."

Megan accepted the bundle without a word and allowed herself to be led inside. The lobby of the building wasn't impressive – a front desk to the left, a doorway to the right, big French doors leading outside. The monk directed her to the left and opened up a small anteroom. Its door was nearly kissing the corner of the building. Megan shut the door behind her and emerged a few moments later dressed the same as the monk, (with the exception of her tennis shoes) holding her jeans, camisole, and light blouse in a messy pile with her purse on top. The monk smiled at her, took her things and put everything behind the front desk.

"I appreciate your respect for our ways and your acceptance of our regulations. Everything will be waiting for you when you leave." Both of those sentences sounded rehearsed, but then he quite conversationally asked, "How do you feel in the robes?"

They walked out through the French doors into a small open area of grass between some sand-colored buildings.

"If I say 'like a Jedi,' would you be offended?" Megan replied wryly out of habit, gathering up her new, slightly scratchy garment and trying to keep from tripping on her hem.

"Not at all," the monk said gently, with some amusement. "Come."

They walked along through a surprisingly complicated sea of small buildings and out to an enormous garden area with several sand gardens and a pool shaded by large trees.

"Larry came to us ten weeks ago," the monk explained as they threaded their way through the monastery. "For the first three he took a vow to live in complete silence, which he did very well, and since then he has been in what we call 'working meditation.' He tends the sand gardens and waters the plants, and otherwise he's only had human contact at meals. He still doesn't speak that often," he commented with a smile.

Megan smiled too, barely holding it together now. She knew she was about to shatter Larry's peace. The knowledge was warring with her desperate need to see him.

"Everyone likes him though, I'm sure," she said. "Right?"

"Oh, very much," said the monk. "Please wait here by the reflecting pool. I'll fetch him."

"Thank you," Megan said.

She sat down on a hard stone bench which looked down into the shady pool. The sun, definitely starting to set now, was in her eyes. She focused on the water and sighed at her lack of foresight. In her haste to change and see Larry, she'd left her sunglasses in her purse. So she slumped forward, waiting and staring at the surface of the pool as little bugs settled and made tiny ripples, and wondered again if she'd made the right choice to come here. A presence beside her made her turn.

Larry was sitting next to her. How he had sneaked up on her and sat down without her noticing she didn't know, but it didn't matter. He was dressed the same as the other monk had been, in a robe and sandals; he was also rather tan from spending so much time outdoors and a little thinner about the face.

"Hello Megan," he said.

Megan stared at him, and stared some more, and didn't speak. She'd come here with the intention of talking to him calmly, and then just like that, like someone had snatched up her thoughts and scattered them on the wind, all the words she had in the car had somehow escaped her. Seeing him sitting across from her, dressed like someone from another world – it was the last straw.

She was lost and tired and screwed-up. Every last thing that she'd experienced on assignment for the DOJ, all the hell with Colby, and all the feelings she'd been forced to shelve for so long rose up like a tidal wave to overwhelm her. Her face crumpled in misery and she threw herself against him, into his arms, and began to sob quietly.

If this surprised Larry, he didn't show it. He held her tight and pressed his face into her neck, which was slightly hot against his nose. They stayed that way for a very long time, Megan crying and Larry holding her and staring off into space, until Megan got a hold of herself just enough to rub her red-rimmed eyes and scrub her blotchy cheeks. She immediately re-gripped Larry's robe, which was growing damp in her clutched hand.

Loud flies buzzed around the pool and Megan hiccupped. For some reason, even after such an embarrassing display, she knew that she was safe here. Larry ran a warm hand through her hair, and it was like a key turning a lock. The words came tumbling out.

"Colby Granger was killed yesterday. He'd been convicted for treason. He was at Edwards. They were just getting ready to transport him to death row when somebody killed him during a prison riot. We all … we all went together to identify the body." A stray tear slipped out and hit the back of his robes. "I'm sorry to take away the peace you had here, but I had to tell somebody. I figured if anyone could make me feel better about it, you could."

Larry blinked in shock, but didn't let go. "Colby Granger was … a spy?"

She nodded miserably and finally broke away. Larry took her hands in his and probed her with his patented innocent puppy look. She sighed, sniffed, and explained everything: how Colby had secretly been working as a double agent for the Chinese, along with Dwayne Carter, and the aftermath of his betrayal.

"The worst thing was, I couldn't think it of him, not even after they arrested him," Megan said, and sniffed again. "For better or for worse, he was a valuable part of the team. He was a good guy."

Larry said nothing to this at first. He went with his instincts, took her in his arms again and rocked her slightly. Megan was still shaking, and hard. And that was when Larry knew that something terrible beyond Colby's death that had rocked his, well, his _rock_, for lack of a better word. Something terrible had rocked his rock. He almost smiled at the pun. Perhaps at some future point he could figure out the rest of what was causing Megan's distress. Perhaps that future point should be soon, if her present state was any indication.

And then he realized with a jolt what he had done, and _not_ done, and … oh, dear.

"Megan, I'm so sorry about Colby. And I … I want to apologize. I broke my promise to you."

"Promise? What promise?" she asked, snuggling against his shoulder and squeezing her eyes shut.

"I promised I wouldn't leave you," he said softly. "I know you were very accepting of my trip into orbit, but what did I do when I got back to earth? I acted like a coward. I was selfish and scared. I ran away from the world, and left you to face this terrible tragedy alone." He paused and kissed her gently, right where her long neck met her jaw line. "Megan, if – if you can find some way to forgive me…"

"Oh God, Larry, enough," she blurted out. She broke away just far enough to find his lips and kissed him full on. He sat there stunned as she broke it off. "There's nothing to forgive, all right?" She wiped an eye. "You were flying around in a tin can for six months. You needed some space, and you had to get away from other people. Your reaction on getting back to earth was perfectly normal … well, for you, anyway." She managed a watery smile. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you, but I had to see you."

Larry nodded and looked at the grass. "You didn't disturb me. And I'm glad you came."

They shifted and settled on the bench, flush against each other. Larry wrapped an arm around Megan and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment and nestled against his shoulder. They sat there by the reflecting pool for a few moments in silence. The sun was nearly down, setting the horizon on fire and bringing out the golds and reds in their hair.

Larry had never failed to make her feel safe. And here, in this peaceful place, with her little mission accomplished, Megan allowed herself to drift away a little bit. She eyed her blotchy-faced reflection in the dying light, watched the evening insects dart around, and sighed as the tension finally drained from her body, leaving her a little lightheaded.

She was quickly jolted out of this by the disappearance of the arm around her shoulders. Larry was standing, looking as though he had made a decision.

"Would you wait here for a moment?" he asked.

Megan wiped her face, confused. "Sure."

Larry hurried off, his robe flapping out behind him, and Megan sat there by the pool alone for a few minutes. The stillness out here was almost absolute, broken only by the occasional call of a bird, or the rustling of branches. The wind was playing across her face now, and the sun had nearly snuffed itself out. She closed her eyes.

A hand on her shoulder made her open her eyes and look behind her. Larry was back, now holding a small, neat pile of belongings.

"Would you be willing to give me a ride back to CalSci?" he asked. "Or perhaps Charles's house?"

Megan regarded him. "Are you positive about this?" she asked in response. "If you're not ready to leave the monastery, you should stay. I'll come and get you when you want to go."

Larry shook his head. "I found my peace, such as it was. And I can't ignore my responsibilities outside this place. Clearly, I'm needed elsewhere." He looked rather brave and terrified as he said this, and held out a hand to her. "Let's go."

"You're absolutely sure."

Larry smiled warmly. "I believe the sand garden will survive without me."

Megan smiled back. She accepted his hand and stood, gathering her borrowed clothes with her other hand so she wouldn't trip. With their fingers laced comfortably, they slowly made their way back to the administration building.

* * *

This chapter's title, "_Dime, guapa_," is pronounced "THEE-meh, GWAH-pah." It is a Spanish expression of affection – and a conversation starter. It means, "Tell me, beautiful." 


	3. Dos

**Chapter Two**: _La cuenta por favor_

Don stared at his computer screen, rolled up his shirt sleeves and dragged his hands towards the keyboard again. He'd shed his tie – it was hanging over the back of his chair along with his suit jacket – and his hair was sticking up in all directions, the result of his unchecked, unconscious habit of rubbing his head when confronted with things he didn't want to deal with.

Two weeks had passed since the incident, long and dreary and hot. Don had spent most of it buried in paperwork. There were the formalities to be taken care of within the FBI – pounds of forms regarding Colby Granger's demise, interdepartmental things releasing a new agent to join the team (he'd asked Liz Warner if she was up for it and she was), wrap-ups on recent cases, etc. He'd expected the hurricane of triplicate, but it didn't mean he liked it.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) August was generally a slow month for law enforcement around here. Everyone had their own theory as to why; Don figured it was because of the heat. Only the most hard-bitten and determined criminals could survive the soupy air and hot, dry winds and still retain enough functioning brain cells to do what they did. Privately, he was glad of the plummeting crime rate. God knew the FBI had enough problems catching these people the rest of the year. In any case it seemed as though both sides of the law needed a little break and by some unspoken agreement August had been selected. Ordinarily Don was all right with this, but after the nightmare out at Edwards he really just wanted to get out of the office and chase somebody nasty and shoot or arrest him, the hell with the heat … preferably with Megan and David and Colby along for the ride.

_Colby_. That one word, and everything it conjured, made him wince. Old habits died hard, apparently. He shook his head vigorously. He was not going there.

So he looked around for a distraction. The glass partitions and the gray walls of the FBI offices had never been very exciting to stare at and the mounds of paperwork on his desk, a.k.a. "the steaming piles of excrement," were alarmingly tall. In fact, one slight push might topple them over and make a huge mess … a mess that would easily require an hour to clean up before it could be tackled. Hmm.

Just as he was reaching out a slightly quivering hand, ready to make it happen…

"Don?"

He pulled back as though burned and spun in his chair. "Yes."

Megan smiled gently at him. She was leaning with one hip against the entry of his cubicle, dressed for summer in a brown pencil skirt and a white sleeveless top that emphasized her tall, skinny frame. A folder dangled from one hand and her reading glasses, dangling from her neck, glittered under the lights.

"It's lunchtime," she said.

Don blinked at her. "And?"

She smiled again, this time in amusement. "Charlie, remember? You were going to take him to lunch?"

"Crap, that's right."

Don stood up immediately and searched for his car keys, which he found circled around the switch at the base of his desk lamp.

"Thanks," he mumbled distractedly.

"You told me to remind you," Megan said with a shrug. "I'm just glad I remembered you told me! I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, definitely," Don said, patting his back pocket and making sure his wallet was there. "See you in a couple of hours. What are you and David doing for lunch?"

Megan snorted. "_We're_ ordering in. It's a blast furnace out there. Plus, there's paperwork." She nibbled on her lip and then asked hopefully, "Anything else we could be doing instead?"

Don sighed, and then nodded. Yes, there was one thing she and David could do during lunch, and they all knew what it was. It was that thing the team had been dragging their heels on for the past two months, doing it in barely noticeable increments. Don simply pointed at the empty (and still fairly messy) work area up one cubicle and over two. Megan followed his finger and then turned back to him.

"Really?" she asked plaintively. "Today?"

Don gazed at her calmly. He understood where she was coming from, so he went easy. "Agent Warner is coming in tomorrow to officially join the team, and she needs a place to work. … Look, we're running out of time here, Megan. It's got to get done. There's not much left to do, so just take care of it, all right? Don't make me give you an order."

Megan and Don stared each other down. It wasn't that Megan or David objected to Don's no-longer-quite-so-secret relationship with Liz Warner. In fact, as far as Don knew they were both pretty supportive of it, and both of them seemed to like and respect the woman. When she got here, everything would be fine. But this one last task before her arrival was not pleasant, and he was secretly a little happy to delegate it to somebody else.

Megan finally acquiesced with a simple bob of the head. "Sure."

Don nodded, satisfied with her response. He snatched up his jacket (his tie slipped off the chair and hit the floor) and practically trotted off down the hall. Megan watched him go with a little grin. She knew he was antsy, and she knew why. Slow weeks always did this to him. Of course, a certain someone could always be counted on to make a smart-ass comment about it as soon as their boss was out of earshot. Out of habit, her eyes flicked over to Colby's empty desk. And her smile faded.

* * *

Don made it out to CalSci in good time, parked, and headed into the Math building to find Charlie and drag him out somewhere for lunch, as they'd agreed over the phone yesterday. It had been Dr. Bradford's suggestion. A few days after the incident, the three agents and their math consultant were called in for a group session; it was standard procedure after something like this. Everyone sitting around the coffee table in the office had been in differing stages of "slump" but at least Megan, Don, and David could look the therapist in the eye. Charlie had hardly raised his gaze from the floor, and had only spoken when asked a direct question. 

Bradford had made it very clear a few days later in Don's private session that Charlie was not coping well with the loss. Don had snorted at such an obvious statement.

"_Well, Charlie has issues with people leaving."_

Naturally, the psychologist managed to turn his comment around on him and extract a promise that he would try to help his brother deal with this … perhaps over food and drink. It sounded like a good idea to Don, so here he was.

He ambled down the hallway, shoes echoing slightly on the marble tiled floor, and made his way towards Charlie's office. Just as he rounded the corner, he heard raised voices. The door was open and Charlie and somebody else were going at it. Don squared his shoulder against the jamb and peeked in. Charlie had his back to the door. Dr. Stanley Novich (Don remembered the twitchy bastard from the poker tournament last year) was facing Charlie, looking almost comically grumpy.

"… absolutely nothing I can do about it," Charlie was saying. "Dr. Fleinhardt booked the supercomputer to run one of my algorithms for a very important and exciting physics experiment. He needs to get the data to his colleague in Switzerland right away, because the conference is in two weeks and the paper still isn't written. And frankly, I fail to see how your biochemistry experiment could benefit from using it. All of your data can be processed without it, whereas _my_ algorithm –"

Novich cut him off with a snort. "_Your_ _algorithm_," he sneered. "As though _your_ work is all that needs to get done around here. You know, you math people can be so s-selfish, honestly!"

"_Selfish!_"

"Yes, selfish! I need a rush on this data, too. It's important. Besides, I figured that with your connection to Dr. Fleinhardt, you might convince him to share his supercomputer time."

"Your data is about mutations in _newts_," Charlie sniped. "And Dr. Fleinhardt, as you may have heard, just finally acclimated after re-entry." At Novich's blank look, Charlie sighed. "Larry's still adjusting after his trip into space," he clarified. "He needs to be _given_ his space, and yelling at me is not going to change the fact that he got to the sign-up desk before you did."

"Hmph," said Novich. He began to gather up his briefcase.

"Oh, and Dr. Novich, I _do_ hope the next time I need to use the supercomputer for my work at the FBI and beat you to it – which I _will_ – that you will react with a little more grace," Charlie growled.

Don smiled a little at Charlie's straight stance and brusque tone. It was always kind of fun to watch nerds going at it, but it was time to end this nonsense. Charlie didn't need crap from Novich right now and besides, he was hungry. Don quietly stepped into the doorway, mostly behind Charlie and directly in Novich's line of sight. His brother didn't turn around. Novich hadn't really registered his presence either.

"Ah yes, you with your 'law enforcement' concerns. Big man on campus," Novich sneered, getting in Charlie's face a little bit.

Charlie put his fists on his hips and tightened his shoulders. "_Yes_, me with my law enforcement concerns. The FBI will back me up on this if you'd care to call them and complain. You know what? In fact, I hope you _do_ complain," Charlie thundered, losing it, "Because then…"

And he was off, blustering at Novich in a rapid-fire series of threats and veiled insults, but Novich was not listening.

He had just spotted Don.

Don, who had been waiting for this, gave Novich the glare that made suspects feel about two inches tall. With an almost choreographed elegance he forked two fingers, pointed them at his own eyes and then pointed them at Novich. This was followed by a quick flip-back of his suit jacket, exposing his badge and holstered Glock 22.

Then he thumbed at the open doorway behind him.

Novich's squinty eyes suddenly went wide. Message received, loud and clear.

"… Good day, sir!" Charlie finished.

"I, uh, you know that's, that's um, that's okay, Dr. Eppes," Novich stammered, gathering up his briefcase. "I can a-actually wait for the s-supercomputer."

He shoved past Charlie (and Don) and scurried out of the office and down the hall, his back bent like a beetle. Charlie, bewildered at his adversary's non sequitur and sudden exit, scratched his head. Then he turned around and saw Don standing in the doorway, seemingly absorbed in pulling out his cuffs. Don looked up.

"Oh hey, Charlie," he said casually as he straightened his jacket and started futzing around with his shirt. "Ready to go to lunch?"

Charlie raised an eyebrow. He was fairly certain that his snappy comebacks had not scared Novich away. He'd also known Don his whole life. So he crossed his arms and glared at his brother.

Don straightened his collar, saw Charlie's expression, and knitted his eyebrows in a perfect imitation of confused, vaguely offended innocence.

"What?"

* * *

It was mocking them. 

Megan looked at David. David looked at Megan. They both turned and looked at the cubicle.

"You and your big mouth," David teased, shaking his head. "You couldn't have just lied to Don and told him we were going out? Let maintenance take care of it?"

Megan sighed and rubbed her neck. "There might be important stuff in there. Maintenance would just throw everything out willy-nilly. Come on, let's get this over with. We can break for sandwiches in a bit."

They walked into the cubicle together and started looking around. Granger, although he'd only been in the office for two years, had managed to personalize his area with a favorite coffee cup, plenty of wadded-up balls of scratch paper, and a few goofy nick knacks. The mug and balls of paper were all gone. The computer had been confiscated as evidence almost immediately after Colby's arrest, leaving a big square hole in the dust on the desk surface. The trash can was empty, as was one desk drawer. But they still had two more to go through in order to prepare for Liz's arrival tomorrow, and they really needed to get started. David plucked the deceased agent's prized bobbly hula dancer figurine from where it was suctioned to one corner of the desk and wiggled it.

Megan wordlessly held out a trash bag.

* * *

Keaton's was a little far from CalSci, but neither Eppes had anything pressing to get back to. Besides, it was always a good choice on hot days. The funky, brightly-colored South Pasadena coffee shop was practically an institution. The surrounding neighborhood was upscale and pleasant. The food was fresh. The drinks (hot and cold) were great, the ice cream awesome, and the prices fair. It was also a very nice place to sit and talk. 

Better still, it was practically empty at the moment. The two men craned their necks to check the overhead menu and ordered, and the counter workers got right on it. Don paid for his and Charlie's lunches a few minutes later. Charlie grabbed a bunch of napkins and some straws. Loaded down with edibles, they pounded up the rubber-treaded stairs to the top level of the place, where they settled at a far window table and realized that they had the room to themselves.

"This is nice," Charlie commented while he unwrapped his sandwich. "Thanks for dragging me out of the office."

"Why were you there, anyway?" Don asked, opening his own lunch. "School isn't in session until September, right?"

"Yeah, but I have to finalize syllabi and choose books, and there's department meetings, and I'm helping Larry get settled again, etcetera, etcetera." Charlie made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, and paperwork," he said, biting into his tune on rye. "God, what a pain," he said with his mouth full. "It's the one thing I can't stand about teaching."

Don smiled. He could relate.

"So, uh, Larry," Don prodded. "How's he doing?"

Charlie licked a rogue blob of mayo off the knuckle of his ring finger and reached for a napkin. "Better every day. He's staying with Megan, and he's getting ready to teach again in the fall. I'm not sure what he's going to do about the lack of um, 'worldly possessions,' but he seems to be getting along all right. I plan on giving his favorite shirt back to him. I have a feeling he needs all the shirts he can get right now," he finished with a grin.

Don nodded and sipped his iced tea. He'd gone with the pomegranate and wasn't disappointed. The two worked on their food in silence for a bit. Don opened his roast beef sandwich and looked around for the mustard, which Charlie found first and handed to him. He seasoned it the way he liked it, squished it shut, brought the still alarmingly fat sandwich up to his lips and raised an eyebrow at it like "well, here goes nothing" before biting into it. The mustard ran down the sides and got all over his hands, but it was really good.

Charlie ignored the mess Don was making in favor of staring at the strange artwork on the pastel walls. He nibbled at his sandwich and drank his peach iced tea, and didn't seem inclined to make conversation. Don chewed and used the peaceful silence to figure out how to broach the topic that had brought them here in the first place.

He had the answer by bite three.

"So, Dr. Bradford is convinced that I'm not the only Eppes who needs mental help," Don said.

Charlie's expressive brown eyes locked on him. Don had his full attention; he knew Charlie was intensely curious about his therapy, especially since he generally refused to talk about it at home. It was just the right ploy, and his brother was relaxed and content and heading towards a full stomach. _Got him._

"Excuse me?" Charlie said. "What's this about Dr. Bradford?"

Don wiped his fingers on a napkin and took another sip of iced tea. "Well, this was his idea."

"What was his idea?"

"Lunch."

It took Charlie a second to catch on. He looked vaguely insulted. "Wait a minute. You only took me to lunch because your _therapist_ told you to?"

"No. He suggested it and I agreed. It sounded good, I wanted to see you, and frankly, we need to talk. Simple as that."

For such a high-functioning individual, Charlie had always been great at producing a totally blank look. He demonstrated his prowess.

"About what?"

"You tell me," Don said with a shrug.

Charlie looked down at the table.

"Come on Chuck, you've been avoiding the FBI for the past two weeks, and when we all had to show up for that therapy session you really freaked out Bradford. Not to say that Bradford freaking out wasn't entertaining, but still. What's bothering you, man?"

Charlie sipped his iced tea and said nothing.

"I'm only asking because I think I can help. Maybe."

The two brothers held each others' gaze for a long time. Finally Charlie sighed.

"Fine. You want to help? All right, here it is. Here's the issue. It's Granger."

Don took another bite and nodded at Charlie to encourage him.

"I don't think the man paid one iota of attention to me when I explained things. I mean, inevitably, I would finish telling you all about what I had done for a case and you and Megan and David would be nodding, or at least appear to have some understanding of the material, and I would look over at Colby and he'd be sitting there like somebody hit him in the face with a brick. You know, like…" Charlie let his face go slack and leaned to the side a little. "You know?"

Don snickered despite himself. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. Go on."

Charlie, smiling too, shrugged. "Anyway, so he never understood the math. I think he had no respect for it, either." He let a little puff of air out through his nose, his mood turning darker. "He could get obnoxious and sarcastic, and he called me names behind my back. He was always getting distracted and playing with the toys in my office, which frankly made me worry about his ability to handle a gun." This got a smirk from Don. "He somehow managed to break three of my darts and I know for a _fact_ he broke that plastic expander ball. Oh, Larry was so cheesed. That was his favorite toy. He even broke that fancy sculpted glass magnet too, the one I brought back for you from that conference in Baton Rouge. Remember, you had it in your cubicle?" Don nodded. "I mean, it was a total accident, but I saw him do it, and he realized I'd seen him. He bought my silence with pie." Charlie colored in embarrassment at the memory.

"I always wondered what happened to that thing," Don mumbled.

Charlie hadn't heard him. "He harassed Megan. He annoyed David. He was kind of a goofball, and on top of everything else, he was a traitor."

Don laced his fingers in his lap and eyed Charlie, sensing a turnaround. "… and?" he offered.

Charlie stared back for a long moment in frustration. "And I liked him. And I miss him. Explain that to me."

Don rubbed his head and sighed. Oh, boy. There was really no explaining this to somebody like Charlie, who was frequently confused by emotions – particularly his own. He figured his best bet was to speak the truth.

"Charlie, look, he was a likable guy. He was a damn fine agent, and a valuable member of the team. And I hope you know, he only teased you because he liked you too. That's just the way some people show it, you know that. And you know, whatever secrets he sold … there's no shame in liking him or missing him. We all feel the same way."

Charlie nodded and picked up his sandwich again. "All right. I guess that's okay."

"Charlie, it's more than okay. It's normal. It's gonna take everybody a little time to move on."

"Is that why there was no funeral?" Charlie asked. "So that people wouldn't have to think about him?"

The question caught Don off-guard. "No, not at all," he said honestly. "Granger made his own arrangements. He asked for cremation, and checked the box that said 'no service.' So he was cremated, and there was no service."

Don took another bite to cover the fact that he really didn't want to get into the details. Charlie nodded, part of him knowing he should drop this now, because Don was plainly uncomfortable. But he also knew his brother did better with more information, not less, and he would probably find out anyway. It was better that he found out from him.

"There's one more thing I don't understand," Charlie said, putting down his sandwich and reaching into his back pocket, withdrawing his wallet.

Don sipped his drink and wrinkled his brow. "What is it? And put that away. This is on me."

Charlie waved him off. "I probably shouldn't have done this, but I have a friend at the NSA who keeps track of this kind of thing. I was curious about the extent of Colby's 'arrangements.' My friend did a little research." He looked meaningfully at Don, who nodded. "It turns out that while Colby was incarcerated, someone made some calls and got him a remembrance marker at Los Angeles National Cemetery."

Don blinked. It took a second for the implication to reach him, but when it did … "Wait a minute, with the _vets_?" Charlie nodded. "Charlie, that's insane. No way in hell is a spy supposed to rest with the vets. Your friend must have gotten something wrong."

"No."

"It's a mistake."

"It's not a mistake. Look, here's the plot number," Charlie argued as he plucked a small, wrinkled piece of paper out of his wallet and handed it over. "I didn't believe my contact either, so I actually drove out there yesterday to see for myself and Don … e-everything's right. Name, birth date, scheduled date of execution – well, it's just listed as the death date, but it's all accurate. Can you explain that?"

Don unfolded the paper and read the information. Dumbfounded, he slowly shook his head "no." He couldn't explain that. Just as he pulled out his own wallet and began to slip the paper inside, his cell phone went off. He flipped it open. Charlie went back to his sandwich.

"Eppes."

Charlie saw the look of resignation on his brother's face as he listened to someone on the other end of the line.

"Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can." He flipped his phone shut. "Charlie, I'm sorry, but we gotta cut this short."

"Dispatch?"

"Yeah. I need to get down to Rolling Hills." He stretched, and checked his watch. "Anyway, let me get you back to CalSci and then I'll head out there. Won't _that_ drive be fun," he groused.

"What do you estimate for travel time?" Charlie asked.

"I don't know, four months?" Don drawled.

Charlie snorted at his brother's overreaction. "It's Palos Verdes, not Sri Lanka, and you could just take me with you. I really don't mind; I was actually finished for the day when you showed up."

Don put on a good show. He eyed his younger sibling suspiciously, as though trying to figure out if that statement was accurate.

"Come on, if you waste time getting me back to CalSci, traffic is going to be even _worse_ when you hit the 110," Charlie wheedled.

"Aw, Charlie…"

"You know I'm right. Besides, maybe I can help with something."

Don crossed his arms. Charlie frowned and looked ready to argue again – which made Don do a little dance inside even as he projected boredom and skepticism. This meeting had totally worked. Charlie was basically acting like Charlie again, and he couldn't be happier about it. Don made sure to look as though he was debating the idea for a bit … and finally he nodded. He was rewarded with a smile.

"Okay, fine, you can come," he said grudgingly as he stood up. "But when we get there, you stay out of the way. And if something goes down and I tell you to wait in the car, _you wait in the car_." He grabbed his jacket. "Understand?"

Charlie nodded quickly.

"All right, let's go."

They gathered up their trash and prepared to depart. Don re-wrapped half of his sandwich – always good to have dinner on hand in case things went long – and watched with a slight quirk of the lips as Charlie copied him.

* * *

This Spanish title is pronounced "Lah KWEN-ta, por fa-VOR." It means "Check, please." 


	4. Tres

**Chapter 3**: _Rancho Dos Muertos_

The Palos Verdes Peninsula, even in mid-August, was an oasis of beauty. The natural element ruled the coastline. The independently wealthy human element, however, had filled in the interior of the South Bay, creating a sea of rolling green lawns and white stucco houses with Spanish tile roofs, broken only by the occasional downtown shopping area or industrial sector. Charlie looked out the windows and drank in the scenery as Don maneuvered the SUV down the wide, smooth streets of the Palos Verdes Estates, heading east into Rolling Hills.

The trees here were huge. The cobbled sidewalks were dotted with white gates signaling the entrances and exits of nearby horse trails, although Charlie hadn't spotted a single horse. The heat here, not as bad as in Pasadena but still oppressive, was probably keeping them in their shaded stables. They wound their way through the residential areas; nearly every large ranch-style home they passed had some cheerful banner flapping from the porch, or an annoyingly cute sign out front that accompanied the street number. And just about all the streets were "Via" something-or-other, which Charlie found amusing. If all of the houses looked similar, and all of the streets sounded basically the same, then how did people find their way around?

Don was concentrating on the road. He was thrilled at making it off the 110 in under an hour, and now he was following the instructions that Charlie had scribbled on an extra napkin from the coffee shop. MacInnes, the head CSI, had given them exact directions to the crime scene while they were on the freeway and since Charlie had his hands free he had briefly acted as secretary. Don followed the twists and turns through the Rolling Hills Estates and fifteen minutes later the black SUV pulled into a dirt parking area and stopped next to a white CSU van, kicking up a little dust. They had reached their destination, nestled on the outskirts of the community.

"All right, let's do this," Don said, putting the car in park. "Now listen up, Charlie. MacInnes told me the condition of the body."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "It's not pretty, is it?"

"Pretty ugly," Don quipped, then turned serious. "Yeah, it's bad. I'd prefer it if you stay back and talk to the techs. Maybe they'll have some data you can take a look at."

"How ugly is it?" Charlie asked, a bit curious.

"The guy's been dead for four days," Don said. Charlie blanched a little. Don caught his reaction. "I'll get you all the information you need, but the physical evidence won't help you, and you really don't need to see it. Okay?"

"Ye – Sure, you got it."

They clambered out of the SUV. A pleasant wind was blowing in from the ocean, which cut the heat a bit. Don straightened his sunglasses, locked the car and took off straight for the crime scene. Charlie put on his shades and looked around for a moment. He quickly spotted the requisite silly sign. I & A Ranch, it read in mock Old West lettering. There were even a couple of fake bullet holes. Charlie snorted. The home, beige with a tile roof the color of a tortoise shell, was ranch style with wooden porch pillars and rough-hewn window frames. It was fairly new and rather tastelessly expensive. Compared to the stuff they'd driven by in Palos Verdes, it was overstated. The house was positioned about fifteen feet off the street with a cobblestone path leading across the front yard to the porch steps.

Behind it was a small parcel of land, pleasantly overgrown or under-mowed, depending on one's point of view. Charlie spotted a sagging stable perhaps two hundred feet behind the house. People, most likely forensics folk, were moving around the decrepit structure, working and waiting to hand off evidence to Don, who was making tracks for it. Beyond the stable, the ragged backyard broke off into wild country. Charlie jogged off to catch up to his brother.

The two of them hiked over to the stable, the high grass brushing against the knees of their pants. Charlie, as he'd promised, walked directly over to the small cluster of techs; a trio of CSIs was at work out of the back of a second van. A police cruiser was parked next to it. Don watched Charlie greet the techs and introduce himself, and then he headed for the CSI in authority. He eventually found his target, a wiry, grey-haired man who was deep in conversation with a pudgy, redheaded local police officer.

"Agent Eppes?" the CSI said.

"That's me," Don said, flashing his badge. "You're in charge here?"

"Until you take over," the man said with a smile. "Ted MacInnes." They shook hands. "Thanks for getting out here so fast. This is Officer Randall of the Palos Verdes Estates P.D.," he said, as Don and Randall shook too.

"What do we have?" Don asked.

"One of yours," MacInnes said, guiding Don over to the last stall in the stable. "That's why we called the Bureau."

Don was baffled. "Excuse me?"

"Here," the CSI said by way of reply and handed Don an evidence bag.

Inside was a business card with a phone number on the back – he immediately recognized the FBI interior prefix – apparently the desk extension for one Agent Indecipherable Scrawl. Don sighed and pulled out a notebook. He fished in his shirt for a pen, found one, and took down the number. He'd have to check this out when he got back to L.A.

"The vic was obviously working for the FBI in some capacity. That is until about four days ago, when somebody killed him."

"Got a name?"

"Gabriel Villanueva. Had ID in his wallet," said Officer Randall, holding up another evidence bag with a chubby, decaying leather rectangle inside.

The three men wandered over to stall 4, the last one in the stable. Smashed into the far corner, grey, stinking, unnaturally fat and very stiff, was the corpse. Flies were buzzing around it. Don fished out a Kleenex, held it to his nose and squatted on his haunches near the body. Just a few hours ago he'd been enjoying lunch with his brother, and now he was here in the hot middle of nowhere, staring at a dead guy. Gross.

"MacInnes, did you find anything while I was on the road? Possible cause of death?"

"Well, I only got a look at the front of him," MacInnes said, kneeling down beside Don. "I didn't want to move him before you got a look at his positioning. My very preliminary analysis is a stab wound. Huge puncture right there. Probably nicked the heart and that was it for him," he finished, pointing at the dead man's chest, where a maggoty stain was congealing.

Don made a face. "Any idea what made it?"

"No, I'll need to get him into the lab. But I can tell you he wasn't killed here. See those marks on the ground?" he said, and pointed out the dirt floor of the stable. The dust had been disturbed.

"This body was dragged in here. Whoever killed this man did it and shoved him in here, hoping to delay discovery of the body."

"Okay, thanks. Well, just go ahead with your investigation and make sure you send everything along to the L.A. field office. I'll be in touch. You've got my extension?"

"Sure do."

"Great. Have at it."

"Okay. You should get a good distance away, Agent. We'll have to pop him in the stall."

"Why here?" Don asked, standing up.

MacInnes smiled tiredly. "Because the other option is him popping in the back of my van, and that's not happening. I just had the thing cleaned!"

He hopped up and whistled loudly, hailing a CSU cohort who came jogging over to take care of the body. Don turned to Randall and together they walked out of the stable and into the hot sunlight.

"So, you got the initial call, I take it?"

"Yes sir."

"Who found this guy?"

"A gardener," Randall said. "He owns one of one of these small pick-up truck operations. You know the kind, four dudes smashed into the cabin and three lawn-mowers in the back. Anyway, he was pretty spooked and he doesn't have much English. We had to get Annette to translate what happened. Man, it really sucks. Poor bastard came by just looking for some free manure and found _that_."

Out of habit, Don looked around for the aforementioned man. "He stick around?"

"Eh, he stayed long enough to lead us to the body. Then he took off for work. We're not lookin' at him."

"Why not?"

Randall licked his lips. "Because he's local, and he's good. Everybody knows him, bunch of people use his little service …"

Don caught on. "And he doesn't exactly have a work visa."

"Right. If we end up needing him, we can find him and ask him some questions. He's not a flight risk."

Don looked skeptical, but eventually nodded. "Okay. Why did it take someone so long to find him? I mean, shouldn't there be horses here or something? People?"

"Nope. The family that owns this place is on vacation in the Bahamas. This stable's about to fall apart, as you can see, so the plan was to demo it and start rebuilding while they were gone, but then the heat wave hit and the work got postponed. No one's been by here in a week."

"Perfect place to dump a body," Don mumbled. "All right, thanks. If you think of anything else, here's my card. And let me get yours, in case I need to talk to that gardener."

"Sure thing."

Both men dug through their wallets and swapped business cards. Randall took off and headed for his police cruiser to get some paperwork started. Don walked over to the CSI van and the small cluster of blue jackets, searching for a wild shock of curly hair. He didn't see one. Slightly concerned, he cleared his throat and the conference broke up. The three techs – two guys who barely looked old enough to shave and a dowdy middle-aged woman with round glasses – blinked at him.

"Hi," Don said. "Eppes, FBI. Um, have any of you seen a guy with curly hair? He's a math consultant for the Bureau. We came down together. I saw him go this way, and I assumed he'd be with you."

"Oh, Dr. Eppes?" the woman asked. Then it dawned on her. "Are you two related?"

"He's my brother."

"Oh! Well, yes, he's here. I mean he was, until about five minutes ago."

"Shirley sent him on a wild goose chase," one of the younger techs piped up.

The woman silenced him with a glare and then turned to Don with a strained smile. "I did not send him on a wild goose chase, Agent. It's just that we didn't really have that much data for him to analyze, and then we both spotted a Palos Verdes Blue. I um, I wanted to go see it up close but I'm stuck here analyzing soil samples, so I kind of … asked him to take a picture for me. He took my digital camera and went after it," she finished, sounding a little sheepish.

Don stared. "Wait a minute. He went after a what?"

The other techs giggled. Shirley frowned. "A Palos Verdes Blue. It's a butterfly; very beautiful and special little critter. Shut up, Stevens!" she snapped at her smirking colleague and turned back to Don. "See, for about eleven years everybody thought it was extinct, but in 1994 some biologists found a few of them living at a fuel depot in San Pedro, and they started a captive breeding program to save it. It's been so successful that now they have two separate programs and there are over 300 of these butterflies in the wild. They're making a comeback. It's so exciting!"

Don smiled politely. _Yeah. Butterflies. Yippee._ He seriously had to find Charlie and get out of here.

"Well look, I'm glad Charlie's getting a picture for you. That was very kind of him. But I need to know which way he went, because we're done for now, and we need to head back to L.A. before the traffic gets too bad."

"Oh, yes, of course. He went that way," the woman said and pointed off into to the wild country beyond the stable.

Don looked. There was no sign of Charlie in the nearby area. He sighed. "Okay, thanks."

And he trotted off in search of his brother. Knowing said brother's penchant for walking, he realized that he might be out here for a while.

* * *

Charlie was creeping along stealthily over pretty unsteady, high-grass terrain. The wind was at his back, blowing a small part in his unruly hair and flattening his plaid over-shirt against his jeans. The stable was just out of sight, as the country dropped very gently here into a small depression. Charlie took the down slope with reasonable grace. He had no eyes for where he was walking – all his attention was on the fluttering, glittery blue insect about four feet in front of him. He moved like a spider, tongue stuck out in concentration, the borrowed digital camera in one sweaty hand and the other out for balance, patiently waiting for his quarry to land somewhere so he could get a picture of it.

And then his right foot caught on a rock, he stumbled, the camera went flying, and it was all over.

* * *

Don was about fifty feet away when it happened. He heard a cry of surprise, an incredibly loud "shpththt" noise (it sounded almost like a whoopee cushion), a moment of silence … and then a hysterical scream, which went straight on for about three painful seconds before suddenly stopping. Don took off like a shot in the appropriate direction.

"Charlie!" he hollered, running pell-mell down the rise. "Charlie, stay …"

_Ho, Lee, Crap. _

"… Put."

The sight Don found at the bottom of the little depression was like something out of a bad zombie movie. A digital camera was lying in the grass. The flash went off and it took a picture of the sky. An exquisite, blue-winged butterfly was making a flutter for the border, or at least the tree line. And Charlie was on his ass, legs splayed in front of him, supporting himself with his hands. His entire front, shirt to shoes, was covered in some noxious substance. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open, but no sound was coming out. It seemed he'd only stopped screaming because he'd forgotten how to breathe.

The cause of Charlie's respiratory problem – a second corpse, just as dead as the first one – lay two feet from him. The body had a bullet hole in its swollen forehead and one grey hand clutched around a crowbar. Don took in this information just as the wind shifted, intensifying the terrible smell and making his eyes water. The liquefied interior of the body was leaking everywhere. And with a thrill of horror, Don put two and two together and realized what Charlie was covered in.

The Brothers Eppes locked eyes.

"Ch-Charlie? Ya okay?" Don asked tentatively, stepping over.

Charlie leaned forward and vomited into his own lap.

"Aw, Jesus," Don bit out with a wince. He turned and looked back up the rise, where Shirley had just arrived. "Get MacInnes!" Don barked at her. "Now!" The tech scurried off.

With no further delay, Don hurried over. He slung an arm over Charlie's quivering shoulders, took most of the younger man's weight and helped him stand up. The remains of a tuna sandwich slid off Charlie's jeans and hit the grass. Don focused on his brother's slightly glassy eyes instead of the mess.

"Charlie, talk to me. … Charlie, _inhale_. Come on."

Don whacked him on the back to encourage him. Charlie took in a strangled breath, which turned into a minor coughing fit. After a few seconds he was breathing properly, but he couldn't stop shaking and his face was chalk-white.

"I … I … t-tripped," he finally managed, and spat.

_No kidding_, Don thought. He tried to will his heart rate down to normal. At least Charlie was speaking; that was a good sign.

"Okay, you just take it easy now," he said gently. "We'll get you cleaned up and then we'll get out of here." He took a step forward and Charlie tried to follow, stumbling hard and almost going down again. "Whoa. Come on buddy, just put one foot in front of the other. … That's it," he praised when Charlie's next steps were steadier. "There you go."

Charlie leaned against Don and together they wobbled their way back up the rise and towards the oncoming CSI crew.

* * *

The elevator dinged at 4:15 on the dot, and Megan looked up from her work. She was a little relieved to see the time. She was kind of looking forward to finishing up on time tonight and having dinner with Larry. Don had called on his way back from Rolling Hills. He'd said they had a new case, Charlie was with him, and he'd bring them all up to speed when he got back to the office, but there wasn't a whole lot they could do with it today. Megan had told him she and David had finished cleaning out Colby's desk to get it ready for Liz.

She'd neglected to mention that they'd finished it with Liz's help. The soon-to-be fourth member of the team had shown up an hour ago with a small box of stuff (one of two) from her previous cubicle, one floor up.

"_It's my last day on the job up there, and they're not letting me do anything, and I was really bored. I figured I'd see what you all were up to." _

Megan and David explained and showed her the area. She tactfully hid her amusement/pity at their unfinished cleaning project and helped them with the top skinny drawer of the desk. They all took it apart. Megan grabbed the papers, Liz grabbed all the office supplies that Granger had squirreled away and divided them equally in quarters, and David cleared out the mess of gum wrappers.

It was Megan who found the envelopes, tucked in the middle of the fat stack of extra forms. Each of them announced a different official title – _Agent Eppes_, _Agent Reeves_, _Agent Sinclair_, _Agent Warner_, _Dr. Eppes_ – and the handwriting was his. Her insides went tight as she faced away from the others and fanned out the slim white rectangles like playing cards. She knew exactly what they were. Goodbye letters. She'd considered writing them while on assignment with the DOJ.

David stopped his work to look at her. She felt his eyes over her shoulder and looked right back with a perfectly quiet expression. He smiled. She smiled. And he went back to tossing gum wrappers, completely unaware of what she'd discovered. It wasn't the right time to hand these out. Everyone was tired, there was work to be done, and they'd all need privacy to read stuff that was bound to be pretty personal.

She hastily hid the letters in the pile of papers she was sorting through and went over to her desk to continue sorting them. When she next looked over at David and Liz they were arguing over who got to keep the green highlighters and she decided she wouldn't get a better chance. She opened her top desk drawer and stuffed in all five of the letters, vowing to get a hold of everybody at some later point and hand them out.

The elevator doors opened, jerking her back to the present.

Don and Charlie stepped out. It was plain even at a distance that both men were exhausted. They walked abreast with matching strides. Don's hair was dusty. He carried his jacket and his sleeves were rolled up. Charlie's hair was damp, and he was dressed bizarrely in green scrubs and flip-flops. Megan blinked. Obviously something very strange had happened down in Palos Verdes. The brothers stopped in front of her cubicle and she took them in for a moment before she spoke, crossing her arms and leaning back in her desk chair.

"Somebody want to tell me what's going on?"

"Sure," Don said quietly. Megan zeroed in on him. On closer inspection, under the grime he looked a little sun-kissed. They'd clearly been outside in the heat for too long. He turned to Charlie. "You want to hang out in the break room? I have to brief everybody."

Charlie just jerked his head in affirmation and plodded off with drooping shoulders. This was such an un-Charlie-like reaction that Megan stood up to go after him. Don stopped her.

"Go to the war room. I'll explain in there. Just get David and … Liz?"

Both agents had appeared in his peripheral view, watching Charlie as he left. Don turned to them with surprise.

"Liz, what are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "I was bored," she said honestly. "Do we have a case?"

Don rubbed his head and dust went everywhere. "Oh boy, do we ever. Come on."

The team crossed the bullpen and convened in the war room, mercifully empty for the moment. Don put his hands on his hips and was about to begin when Megan bumped his arm with a cup of water. He accepted it gratefully, drank it up and started the brief.

"Okay, facts first. It appears as though we're looking at a double homicide. CSI located the body of Gabriel Villanueva in an empty stable in Rolling Hills Estates. The body was in a state of high decomp, but it still had ID. Apparently the guy had some professional connection to the Bureau, which is why we were called in. CSI also eventually located the body of Luis Alcarán, another murder victim. The body was about three hundred feet from the stable, in an equal state of decomp, also with ID. CSI's preliminary analysis indicates that the two murders are connected. When we left the scene they were calling for cadaver dogs; we can't rule out that there might be more bodies. Anyway, they're starting to process stuff right now. They should have something for us by tomorrow morning, but I'll call them for an update in a bit."

The other three nodded, almost impatiently. Megan spoke up on their behalf.

"And what happened to Charlie?"

Don looked uncomfortable. "He um … he had a mishap at the crime scene."

At the borderline homicidal look on Megan's face, Don quickly realized that being evasive was not going to help anybody. He launched into the tale, explaining about the body in the stable, his hunt for Charlie, and finding him next to the second bloated corpse. (He edited out his brother's hysterics.)

"Wait a minute. So Charlie chased after a butterfly…" David interrupted.

"Yes."

"… and tripped over a body."

"No," said Don. "No, no, no. See, 'tripped over' would mean that he actually _cleared_ the body when he fell."

Megan gaped at him. "You're making this up. You're saying he fell and landed on it?"

"Landed on it and popped it," Don said heavily.

"Oh, gross," said David.

"Are you serious?" Liz asked.

"When I found him, he was drenched in liquefied dead guy. It was everywhere."

The seasoned law enforcement personnel around him all looked rather horrified.

"And then?" Megan asked, sounding a little afraid that there might be more.

"He puked," Don said with a shrug, again leaving out a few critical words to spare Charlie some embarrassment. "Not that I blame him. I mean, if I had landed face-first on a bloater and it exploded all over me, I'd lose my lunch too."

The light went on for Megan. Suddenly Charlie's scrubs, flip-flops, hunched shoulders and haunted eyes were making sense.

"They took his clothes?" David asked, beating her to it.

Don nodded. "Evidence. The forensics unit gave us a lift to this little medical center because it had showers, but all they had at the center for him to change into were scrubs. I got him some sandals at a drug store and well, here we are."

There was a moment of silence.

"Has he spoken since it happened?" Megan asked finally.

"I got a couple of words out of him at the crime scene. When he got into the shower at the medical center I stayed on the other side of the door, and he kept apologizing for ruining the investigation, or contaminating the evidence or something. I tried to explain that he hadn't ruined anything, but he wasn't having it. He's exhausted, too. The heat really did a number on everybody. At least I got him to eat something on the way back. Maybe you can talk to him later?"

"Of course," she said. "You know Don, I hate to point out the obvious, but he should go home."

"That's what I said, but he said no. He said we should wait until Dad leaves for the evening. He's got a date with Millie; he's taking off to meet her at seven."

Megan and David nodded sagely. Liz looked perplexed.

"I don't get it," she said.

"You've met my dad, right?" Don asked.

"Once," Liz replied.

"Well, he tends to overreact where Charlie's involved."

Megan and David knew another male Eppes who did the exact same thing, but wisely stayed quiet.

"So Charlie thinks it's better to sneak in rather than let Dad see him like this, and I agree. He's just going to hang out here with us until it's safe to go home. We should get started on this case before we get out of here tonight anyway, so let's get moving."

And everyone did, mostly.

"No," said Megan.

David and Liz stopped halfway across the room.

Don stared at her. "Pardon?"

"No. Don, Liz, David, you all go into the break room and stay with Charlie. I'll be right there. We have a tradition to uphold, and we have to take care of it before we get started on anything else."

And with that, she slipped out of the war room and went to her desk. The three remaining team members, surprised at her strange behavior but willing to take it in stride for the moment, walked off to the break room. They went in and found Charlie sitting on the couch, ankles and arms crossed, asleep with his head tipped against the wall. David and Liz politely wandered over to the coffee station on the opposite end of the room to give Don and Charlie some space.

Don sat down next to his brother and Charlie opened his eyes.

"Did you finish briefing them?" he asked quietly, unfolding his arms and leaning over so he rested his elbows on his knees.

"Yep."

Charlie stared at the floor in shame. "So they know?"

"Only the major facts," Don assured him. Charlie looked unconvinced. "Look, Megan was ready to kill me if I didn't talk. I had to say something under pain of death."

Charlie slumped further.

"Hey come on, everyone was really worried about you," Don explained. "Nobody laughed when I told them what happened, believe me."

Charlie seemed to perk up a little at this. "Really?"

"Really. And I know I should have said it earlier, but your discovery of that second body was huge. I mean, I wish to hell you'd done it some other way," he said with a slight laugh, "But you helped a lot."

Charlie actually smiled, which released a tension knot in Don's stomach he didn't even realize he'd been carrying around. They both looked up as Megan breezed into the room, holding a paper bag wrapped tightly around a large glass bottle.

"David, grab five paper cups from the water cooler, would you?" she said.

David shrugged at Liz and did as requested. He tugged out five little cups from the machine and set them on the table while Megan unscrewed the cap on the bottle. She poured out a little shot of clear liquid into each cup.

"Charlie, get over here," she said as she poured the last one.

Charlie got up slowly, a little confused, and Don nudged him over to the table. He knew what was up, now. As an agent (and an older brother) he was very touched by Megan's actions, although he did his best to hide it.

"Agent Reeves, did you not get the memo about no alcohol in the bullpen?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself.

Meg grinned back as she re-capped the bottle. "I did sir, but as you know, sometimes tradition trumps protocol. And this is tradition. Everybody take a cup."

They all did and arranged themselves in a small circle. Charlie stood between Don and David. He was uncomfortable standing so close to other people right now, considering he could still almost smell a whiff of necrotic tissue on himself even after that long shower with disinfectant soap. But he was curious, so he fought down the urge to bolt.

"I saw my first bloater on my fifth case with the Bureau," Megan began. "I barfed." That got a lip-twitch out of Liz. "And Agent Mitchell Kern, my commanding officer, a really cool guy, took me aside and said it was okay, and handed me a hip flask of Johnny Walker he kept with him. He told me it was a tradition that when you saw your first really gross corpse, you did a 'body shot.' So my 'body shot' was whiskey. And Charlie … since your first experience was so totally shnasty, you get Cuervo Gold and we're all taking it with you."

Everybody laughed. Charlie grinned at Megan, and suddenly the imaginary whiff of dead guy was forgotten. He was exhausted and still not quite right after his field experience, but standing here in this small circle he felt more intensely than ever like he was really a part of something here. He knocked back the shot. Everyone else cheered before following suit.

Don crumpled his little cup and tossed it in the trash. Then he cleared his throat. "Okay, now that the important stuff is done, let's get to work. Megan, David, Liz, I want you to work Gabriel Villanueva and Luis Alcarán. See if you can figure out how Villanueva was connected to the Bureau and what he was doing for us, and find out who Alcarán was. I've got a phone number for you to go on. And Charlie, you're with me. I'll find some numbers for you to run and I'll call forensics to see if I can get us some new data to work with, all right?"

The other four nodded.

"Then let's go people, come on. Day's not over yet."

* * *

This chapter title is pronounced "RAHN-choh doss MWER-toss." It's a play-on-words. Southern California is littered with cities, towns and housing developments that contain the word "_rancho_" (ranch or farm) in the title. Examples include _Rancho Palos Verdes_ (Green Palms Ranch), _Rancho Cucamonga_ (Sandy Ranch, from the Tongva word _kukamanga_, meaning "sandy place") and _Rancho Conejo_ (Rabbit Ranch).

_Rancho Dos Muertos_ basically translates as "Two Corpse Ranch." Doesn't that sound inviting? LOL


	5. Cuatro

**Chapter 4**: _Tres hombres de rodillas en la cocina_

The next day was Friday, and the unspoken "Thank God It's" that came before the word was evident at the FBI. Don, striding into the sleek, glass-walled conference room at 11:29 for an 11:30 briefing, flopped down into a plush desk chair, took in his surroundings and hid a smile. His team was physically present and accounted for, but their minds were clearly elsewhere. David was doodling, Liz was blowing tiny bubbles into her iced coffee using one of those red plastic coffee stirrers, and Megan was staring off into space. Don was kind of right there with Megan as he leaned in his chair and heard his back pop. He was hoping for a light day, followed by some semblance of a weekend. Fat chance of course, seeing as how the team had six on-going investigations on top of this new Villanueva murder, but as nothing much was happening with any of those, they at least had some hope for a break, and were focusing on this particular crime for the moment.

The briefing today was one of two. They had another coming this afternoon for the Stuyvessant case (bank fraud) that Charlie was supposed to present for, as well as give them an update on his work in the Villanueva case. Charlie had come up with the idea of trying to extrapolate some conclusions from measurements taken at the crime scene. After his unfortunate tumble yesterday in Rolling Hills he was more determined than ever to help solve this thing.

The plan for now was to hear and see the physical evidence that CSI had picked up from the scene and any new bits of information provided by the FBI morgue, followed by reports from the rest of Don's team. The other three agents had been following up with Villanueva and Alcarán, trying to pull background checks on the two dead men.

Claudia, the pretty medical examiner in the basement with a healthy interest in David Sinclair, walked in at 11:30 on the dot to deliver her report in person. She'd dressed for the occasion – make-up and everything. Megan, who knew exactly what was going on, smiled and winked at Liz, who grinned back. Don was totally oblivious to this and kept his eyes front and center. So did David, but for a completely different reason.

"So I did the autopsies," Claudia began, speaking to the well-dressed, handsome black man as though he were the only person in the room. She tacked up a few gory photos on the corkboard.

"Anything interesting?" David asked with a smile. He was simultaneously trying to look at her and avoid looking at the pictures behind her, which left him a little cross-eyed.

Claudia didn't seem to notice this. "Oh, definitely. I took in the information that CSI had from the crime scene and that, combined with my autopsy results, allowed me to produce a sketchy time-line and make some hypotheses about what happened."

"And what's your medical opinion?" Don asked.

"Well, based on the rate of decomp, Alcarán definitely died after Villanueva, but not that much later."

"How much are we talking?"

Claudia pursed her lips. "Mm, I'd say maybe three hours, maximum, but I'm willing to dramatically shorten that estimate. See, what CSI gave me doesn't just link the two crimes … it solves one of them."

Eyebrows went up all around.

"Meaning?" Megan inquired.

"Meaning Luis Alcarán killed Gabriel Villanueva. Alcarán was found clutching a crowbar. One of the ends of the bar had been sharpened into a point." She tacked up another two photos, close-ups of the murder weapon. "CSI lifted blood off the pointed end that matches Villanueva perfectly. I looked at photographs of the weapon and compared its business end to the chest wound on Villanueva, including some metallic fragments that chipped off inside him, and it's a perfect match. Also, the freshest prints on the weapon match Alcarán's."

"So Alcarán stabbed Villanueva with the crowbar," Don said.

"Yes, it slid in-between some ribs and nicked the heart, and it was all over for him. But that wasn't all. When I examined Villanueva, I found evidence of live trauma. Somebody really danced on this guy before he was stabbed. I have pre-mortem fist imprints on the chest and face, finger bruises on the neck, broken ribs, broken thumb, ring, and middle finger on the left hand, a few cigarette burns on the chest…"

"He was tortured," Megan said.

"In the middle of nowhere," Don threw in. "Nobody around to hear him call for help."

Claudia nodded. "I checked the bruising patterns against Alcarán's hands, and again, it was a perfect match. So there's no question he's the killer. Now, as far as Alcarán goes, he couldn't have died too long after the murder because he was found with the weapon in his hand. But after he killed Villanueva and wandered out beyond the stable, he was shot in the head; ballistics confirmed that he was shot point blank in the face with his own gun, which was found on him, along with his wallet and cell phone."

Eyes widened.

"So it obviously wasn't suicide," Liz said.

Claudia shook her head. "This was definitely murder. Besides the fact that nobody puts their weapon away after they kill themselves, the entry point is all wrong. People generally go for the temple when they want to end it all. I mean, who the heck shoots themselves in the center of the forehead? Come on."

"Oh, I know, that's so last season," Megan said, causing a few smiles.

"Plus, there's the interesting issue of the angle," Claudia went on. "It looks as though whoever fired that gun fired downward slightly."

"Which means?" Don asked.

"Alcarán was a pretty big guy," Claudia explained. "Six-three, 200 pounds. For someone to fire _down_ at him, well the murderer was either Goliath, or Alcarán was already on the ground, face-up, when he was shot. So I did a tox screen and looked at the stomach contents. Alcarán had eaten lunch before he died and to accompany his fish tacos he had a lot of Modelo Negro in him … which, it turns out, was the perfect vehicle to deliver a _massive_ amount of flunitrazepam."

"Fluni-what?"

"Flunitrazepam," Claudia repeated. Her audience stared blankly. "Roofies," she clarified.

The four agents exchanged knowing looks.

"So we're looking for a third person who incapacitated Alcarán and killed him. Maybe they left evidence at the scene," David put in.

"I don't know," Don argued, rubbing his neck. "I mean, the area around the stable was sandy, but everything else in the vicinity is like, knee-high grass. It's completely wild out there. If Alcarán's killer left anything behind, it could be gone. I don't even see how we'll get footprints. This is crazy," he finished, sounding a little frustrated. "It's the perfect crime scene!"

"Not quite," said Claudia to Don. "Stuff can get left behind _anywhere_. I'll see if CSI can come up with anything else. The last time I checked with them, they were going through your brother's clothes to see if they could pull anything more."

Everyone nodded.

"Okay, thank you Claudia," Don said. "I know you have a ton of work to do, so don't worry about following up with CSI, I'll take care of that. Meantime, we'll send somebody down if we have any more questions for you."

Claudia smiled and left.

"And by 'somebody' I mean Sinclair," he added quietly, after she'd gone. Megan and Liz started giggling. He looked at the two women, then at David, who looked highly embarrassed. Don smiled slightly to set him at ease, and turned the meeting over to him.

"You want to brief us on what you found out?"

"Uh sure," David said, thankful for a change in topic and finding his notes. "Well basically, we split up the work. Liz tried to find out stuff about Villanueva, Megan worked on rustling up witnesses…" This got an eye-roll from Megan. "She had no luck, apparently…" Megan shook her head "no" in an exaggerated manner. "And I went digging for treasure about Alcarán. Found things of interest."

"Such as?"

"Well Alcarán is on file, for starters. That gun that Claudia was talking about is legally registered to him, but that's about as legal as he gets. He got into this country six years ago on a work visa which looks a little shady, he's on record with a few counts of assault – charges were mysteriously dropped before he went to trial – and up until his death," David frantically started flipping pages of notes, "He worked as a bodyguard for some dude named …"

"Pedro Mata," said a new voice.

Everyone turned. A Mexican-American man with mocha skin and polished obsidian eyes was leaning in the doorway, holding a thick stack of manila folders. He was a good-looking, clean-shaven specimen with a pointed chin and straight black hair in a short ponytail. With a pleasant smile he stood straight; he was armed and ID'd and dressed for the heat like everybody else. Liz sighed in mock-exasperation.

"Andi, you're late."

"Sorry," the man said, looking anything but apologetic.

"You're _always_ late," she badgered him.

"Hey, I heard everything the ME said _and_ I come bearing information. Does that make up for it? Ah?" he asked, with just a hint of an accent.

Liz scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue at him. Don smiled. Clearly these two knew each other. The newcomer, deciding it was safe, stepped into the room.

"Everybody, this is Special Agent Andrés Moreno of the organized crime unit," Liz announced, flipping the "r"s expertly. "He and I worked together upstairs before I got transferred down here with you all. Agent Moreno, these are Agents David Sinclair, Don Eppes, and Megan Reeves."

"'Andi,' please," the man said.

The others nodded and said hello in a jumbled chorus of traditional greetings and grunts.

"Anyway, it turns out that the contact number Don got at the crime scene was for Andi's desk, and since this involves him, he can discuss the investigation." Liz informed them. "Andi, what have you got?"

"Well, not to steal Agent Sinclair's thunder, but I can tell you an awful lot, especially now that Villanueva's history."

"Call me David. And man, you're not stealing anything. I got to 'Pedro Mata' and from there on it was 'classified' this and 'go see the OCU' that, so go for it."

He sat down and Andi grinned, setting his burden down on the main table with a thump.

"All right, here are the basics. My office is pursuing a man named Pedro Mata," he said as he opened one manila folder and handed out photos to everybody. Don looked at his. It was a surveillance photo from an airport. A very dark-skinned man with a chubby face, eyes nearly hidden under his cheeks, and a handlebar mustache glowered up at the camera. "He's a smuggler, but he's not your run-of-the-mill type of criminal."

"What's he smuggling?" Don asked.

Andi made a "pfft" noise. "Anything that's not nailed down, man. His latest venture seems to be trading in children. He's got people down in the Distrito Federal in Mexico that round up 'throwaway' kids, lure them with the promise of a better life in the States, and shuttle them up in rickety vans into prostitution or slavery. We've had reports of people dying from being drug mules in operations connected to him, weapons, everything. We've got…" He paused and sighed. "Well, we've got _a lot_. The frustrating thing about this guy is that he's like a ghost. He's extremely well-protected and apparently he's very technologically savvy. He does this stuff and just disappears into the mist, and nobody can find him."

"And everybody wants to," Don said.

"Oh, yes sir. FBI, LAPD, the Federales, the Sheriffs … people were spreading rumors about the CIA, for God's sake. The hunt is that intense. Anyway, we knew that his operation was based somewhere in the Los Angeles area and that was as close as we could get … until we got a hold of Gabriel Villanueva. I collared him on a B and E in Brentwood two months ago as part of another case. _He_ said he was only acting on Mata's orders.

Now, no way was this guy clean. He had two other collars, one of which was a sexual assault. It was going to be his third strike. I convinced him to turn state's evidence in exchange for that strike disappearing. We got him on a wire, and he wormed his way in. He was moving up in the organization, being given more responsibilities, etcetera. We made a few big collars, got more information, and even though he was ratting everybody out, he kept himself well out of trouble. I mean, this guy was _good_, man. He was getting us within _breathing_ distance of Mata. We have him on tape in a meeting with the man himself."

"So what happened?" Megan asked. "Why did Alcarán kill him?"

Andi shrugged. "It could have been a simple rivalry for Mata's respect, or a _sospecho_, as they say in the business. _I suspect you_," he clarified, and received some nods. "Alcarán was one of Mata's top bodyguards, according to Villanueva, and a big, crazy, mean son-of-a-bitch. If he suspected that Villanueva was made and ruining Mata, well … let's just say he knows his way around a crowbar. I think this was business."

"Business? This looks more like torture," Megan commented, eyeing Andi. Everybody else turned to her. "I'm just saying that we have a very violent man who clearly tortured Villanueva – probably for information," she defended her position. "I think we have to assume that he got something, and realize that this is a lot bigger than one man killing another over a _sospecho_."

"I agree," said Andi. "Which is why I am _thrilled_ to be off the case. With Villanueva six feet under, there's no one at the Bureau to report to, so there's nothing to worry about!"

The other agents didn't look convinced, but said nothing.

"There's still the problem of who killed Alcarán," Liz said.

Andi nodded. "True. And I have no idea of who that might be, but I do have lots of intel that we gathered on the organization – known associates, known properties, all that kind of stuff." To punctuate this, he thumbed at the thick stack of manila folders on the table. "You guys can take a look through it. Just don't let any of that stuff wander away; someone else will be coming down here for the information eventually."

"I understand," Don said. "We'll keep it all together for them."

Andi nodded.

"Look, maybe this is too much to ask, but are we allowed to hear the tapes you got off Villanueva's wire?" asked David.

"Yeah, sure," Andi said, already moving towards the door. "I've got them in a box in my office. I'll bring them down. But you know, the same thing applies – the office needs them back."

"Of course," said Don.

Andi nodded. "Great. Nice meeting you all!" he said, and slipped out.

"The way people like Alcarán do business ... yeesh. No wonder he's pleased to be off this," Liz said as soon as the other agent was gone. "Little bit safer for him. And now he has more time for his letter bomber case."

"Oh yeah," said Megan, standing up and stretching. "That's _tons_ safer."

* * *

The ringing phone startled Charlie out of his daze. He was surrounded by paper with highlighted dots. Equations, graphs and scribbles littered three chalk boards and Larry, who had graciously agreed to play the part of Villanueva in the stable, was snoring loudly in a desk chair. The little metallic alien spaceships all over his button-up shirt caught the rays of sunlight poking in through the tears in the dusty window shades, and the clock on the wall read 2:30. Charlie swore quietly. He was due at the FBI at 4 for a briefing. A nifty little algorithm had basically solved the Stuyvessant case, but he'd made absolutely no headway on the Villanueva murder, even after visualizing it and walking through scenarios with Larry for two hours. It was bugging the hell out of him. 

Charlie's stomach rumbled and he realized he'd skipped lunch, yet again. He picked up.

"Hello?"

"Charlie, it's Amita." She sounded very tired.

"Hey Amita, what's up? Oh no, were we supposed to meet for lunch today?"

There was a snort on the other end. "No. Well, we _were_ on for tomorrow, but I don't think that's going to happen."

"Oh, is your jaw still bugging you?" Charlie asked sympathetically, scrunching his shoulder against his ear to hold the receiver in place while he reached for a pen. "Did the dentist figure out what's wrong?"

Amita's jaw had been bothering her all week, to the point where yesterday she'd had a blinding headache. Charlie had only found out about it yesterday evening, when she called to tell him she wasn't feeling well and was heading in to see the dentist today at his office in Glendale, high up in one of those slick white buildings north of the Galleria.

"My jaw is worse. It's really throbbing. And the dentist just gave me some bad news."

"What?"

"Well, I was looking forward to hanging out with you, or going out, you know, just doing something fun next week. But it looks like I'm having my wisdom teeth out on Monday."

Charlie was baffled. "Wait a minute, you still have them? I never knew that. I had mine out when I was twenty."

"Yeah," she sighed on the other end. "Well, mine weren't doing anything when I was that age, so they got left to their own devices. Turns out teeth aren't that smart – they have no sense of direction."

Charlie smiled and nodded in understanding. "Which ones are impacted?"

"Upper right and lower left," Amita replied, now sounding rather depressed. "Dr. Barsegian just wants to remove all of them at one shot."

Charlie winced. "Wow. Well, at least once it's over you won't have any more pain. In fact, you know what, I'm working on something for Don, but I'm not making much progress here," he said over a particularly loud snore from Larry. "It probably hurts to chew, right? How about I drive over, pick you up, and we can get smoothies or something before I have to head over to the FBI?"

"Aw, Charlie, that's so sweet of you, but I don't want to pull you away from your work."

"You're not pulling me away if it's my choice," he pointed out. "Besides, Glendale's twenty minutes from here. What's the address?"

"No, it's okay."

"Amita," he said sternly.

"I'm not being stubborn, I swear!" Amita defended herself. "It's just that I'm parked on the street. There are all these restrictions around here and I don't want to get a ticket. I'll just come back to CalSci and then we can go for smoothies, okay?"

"All right," he said.

There was a pause on the other end and then Amita asked nervously, "Charlie, what am I going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where will I go after the surgery?"

And it belatedly dawned on Charlie what her worry was. Anesthesia, exhaustion and post-operative drugs were a pretty heady combination. She'd need someone to take care of her while she recovered.

"My house of course," he said. "What, did you think you'd be left alone? I'm happy to take care of you."

"Are you sure?" she asked in a small voice.

"Positive," he said warmly. "Look, just come back to CalSci and we can figure out the logistics, okay?" He looked over at his slumbering colleague. "Oh boy, I gotta wake Larry up before he drools on himself. I'll see you soon."

* * *

"Hello?" Don called out, stepping into the Craftsman house. 

It was about six thirty, and his week at the FBI had actually finished on a high note. Charlie had no cool math stuff to help with the Alcarán/Villanueva homicide (yet), but his presentation on the Stuyvessant case had wrapped it up so neatly that everybody in the briefing room had been delighted. David and Megan had hurried off to arrest the perpetrator and Don had stopped by CSI to see if they had any evidence from the scene that they couldn't link to either dead guy, hoping it might shed some light on their investigation. He had come away with a small "odds and ends" folder, tucked under his arm along with his take of the evidence from Andi.

"Oh hey Dad," he said in a normal tone of voice, and smiled.

Alan, in his beige cotton shirt and brown pants, had successfully (if accidentally) camouflaged himself as part of the oak Morris chair he was occupying. He looked up from his Sudoku and smiled back.

"Hey Donnie, good to see ya. How was work?"

Don shrugged. "Not bad. You seen Charlie?"

"Yeah!" Alan said, his whole face opening up in anticipation. "Your brother is upstairs … wait for it … cleaning his room."

They stared at each other.

"Have I wandered into a parallel universe?" asked Don.

Alan laughed. "No, I don't think so. _Amita_," he continued, raising his eyebrows knowingly, "is coming on Monday to stay with us for a few days. She's having her wisdom teeth out and Charlie gallantly offered to take care of her."

Don nodded. "Oh, that's nice of him. Man, wisdom teeth – ow. I remember that. I came through it okay, I think." Then he brightened. "Hey, remember when Charlie had his out?"

"Oh yeah," Alan said, grinning. He then did his impression of it, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes and leaning back in the chair like a zombie.

"For like, four days!" Don said, laughing, and Alan joined him. He dropped his Sudoku book onto the circular table next to him and hefted himself out of the chair.

"Well, I'd better get dinner started," he said.

"Aw Dad, you don't have to cook," Don protested. "I was just dropping stuff off for Charlie."

Alan blinked at him. "But you're hungry," he said, as though stating a universal constant.

Don _was_ hungry, but he tried again. "Look, you don't have to do anything, really. I was just … I'm going…" Folding under his father's firm look, he finally gave up. "Yeah okay, I'll stay."

"Good," said Alan. He shuffled off into the dining room and headed for the kitchen. "I mean we're all here, it's Friday night, there's food … why not?" And he bumped through the swinging door.

Don couldn't argue with that kind of logic. He adjusted his files and headed upstairs to find his brother.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were sitting in the dining room, poring over new information. Don was looking over a massive file of details on the known properties Mata owned, trying to see if maybe he could link the list to the crime scene in Rolling Hills. Charlie was contemplating the papers spread out in front of him and scribbling stuff in a notebook. He was still trying to draw some conclusions based on the measurements of how far things were from each other at the crime scene, and trying to input some of the new information Don had found out from CSI.

A sudden clatter in the kitchen made them both jump.

"Dad?" Don called.

The answer was not an answer but a curse, muffled by the kitchen door. "Son of a bitch!"

Alan Eppes didn't curse without a good reason. Don tossed the papers aside, jumped up and headed into the kitchen with Charlie right behind him.

They burst in through the swinging door and found their father sitting on the terra cotta tile floor, legs splayed, leaning his back against the white-washed sink cabinet. He looked just as confused as his sons. A wooden salad bowl was upside-down under the kitchen table. Chunks of lettuce, sprigs of cilantro and carrot rounds had splashed everywhere.

Don and Charlie ran over to him.

"Dad, my God," Charlie said, just as Don asked, "What happened?"

Alan sighed. "Well, I went this way," he said, pointing for emphasis, "And my knee went that way," he pointed in another direction, "And I fell on my ass!"

He sounded more indignant than injured, which was a relief to Don and Charlie. They both got down on their knees on either side of him. Alan slung his left arm over Charlie's shoulders and his right over Don's; leaning slightly on his older son, he managed to bend his left knee and heft himself up slightly onto one leg. Charlie and Don found good parts of his shirt to grip, nodded at each other, and pulled as they stood up together ("Goddamn salad's ruined," Alan grumbled), hauling their dad to his feet.

Alan tried to steady himself without much success, and cursed softly as he put weight on his right leg. The younger Eppes men shared a silent look.

"How embarrassing," Alan mumbled. He looked from son to son. "Never get old, either of you. That's an order."

"We'll do our best," Charlie said quietly. "Come on Dad, you can sit down in the dining room. Let's go."

"Has this happened to you before?" Don asked in concern as they helped him out into the dining room and into the nearest chair.

Alan sat down with a grunt, allowed Charlie to drag over another chair and prop his right foot up on it, winced at the movement and pretended he hadn't heard Don's inquiry. In fact, he wouldn't even look at him. That got Don's antennae up; there was nothing wrong with his father's hearing. His years of FBI experience came to the fore.

"Excuse me, I just asked you a question," he said in a surprisingly authoritative voice and leaned in across the messy dining room table. "Answer me."

Charlie's eyebrows went up. Neither of them made a habit of speaking to their father that way. Fortunately, it was just the right tactic. Alan was so surprised by Don's tone of voice that he actually responded.

"I … yes."

Charlie rubbed his temple.

Don was still leaning in. "How many times?" he pressed.

But Alan had recovered. He narrowed his eyes at Don. "Save the interrogations for work, Donald," he replied, not giving an inch. His wall, heavily bolstered by age and authority, was firmly in place.

"Dad, come on, please," Don said, switching tactics and softening his voice. "There's a time for being private – now is not it. How many times has this happened?"

"You mean in the last month?" Alan snapped, intending to shock his older boy into shutting up. Maybe then he could limp off and lick his wounds in the den.

"Last _month_?" Charlie piped up, looking in alarm from his brother to his father.

Alan started and looked at him. He'd kind of forgotten about Charlie being there, what with Don going FBI on him.

"Dad, how long has this been going on?" Charlie asked quietly. "What's the matter with your knee?"

It was the pleading tone that did it. The only sound in the dining room for a few seconds was the ticking clock; it sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness. Alan sighed in resignation. As annoying as it was to have his kids ganging up on him, they deserved a straight answer.

"It's only the third time I've fallen," he said, stubbornly trying to downplay it. "And the other times I just tripped. Look, my knee, it – it just does this every once in a while. It hurts for a couple of days afterward, I move slowly, the pain goes away, and it's okay again."

"Can you move your leg?" Don asked.

"Of course I can," Alan said peevishly. In all honesty, he didn't know if that was accurate. His knee was hurting a lot worse than it had before. "Just give me a couple of minutes; I'll be fine."

It was a classic "no arguments" dismissal. He even shooed them away. Then he looked down at the floor, assuming the boys would be their usual well-raised selves and take the hint. But after about five seconds it was apparent that nothing was happening, and he looked up to see that neither of his children had budged. Don was standing at-ease with his arms crossed, his jaw tight and his eyes sharp. Charlie had his hands on his hips and wore the exact same expression as his brother. It was a little eerie.

"Is that the look that I get when you guys do something stupid?" Alan finally asked, trying for some humor.

"Probably," Charlie snapped, refusing to take the bait. "Don, your car has a wider backseat than mine. Where is it?" he asked calmly, his eyes never leaving his father.

"Out front," Don said through thin lips. His gaze didn't shift either. "Keep an eye on him – I'll pull into the driveway."

Charlie nodded. Don jogged around the table and took off. Charlie unconsciously assumed his absent brother's cross-armed stance, but Alan hardly noticed. He had just figured out the plan – far too late – and immediately began to protest.

"This is ridiculous. I just slipped, for God's sake! I am _not_ going to the doctor," he insisted. "And you can't make me," he threw in half-heartedly.

Charlie snorted. "Maybe _I_ can't make you," he replied, "But I seriously doubt you could fight off Don and me together, old-timer."

Alan glared at Charlie. "Smart-ass," he scolded.

"Can't help it," Charlie teased.

"Oh, aren't you hilarious!" Alan said, finally getting riled. "What is this, seeing your father crippled and in pain brings out your inner comedian?"

_Oh, damn it_. He hadn't meant to say that. Charlie was already moving towards him. The Don face was gone and now he was just worried.

"You're still hurting? Why didn't you say something?"

"I'm not hurting. It's not bad," Alan backtracked. "Nothing a little ice won't fix."

"Oh, please. You're a worse liar than I am," Charlie snapped, hurrying to the sideboard and tugging open a drawer where he'd seen Don stash a Tylenol bottle once. He found it and closed the drawer. "You probably can't even get up by yourself, can you?" he said as he popped open the bottle.

Alan glared at Charlie again, and mulishly attempted it before his younger son could stop him. He only got himself a few inches off the chair before the pain in his knee made him drop back down.

"Dad, that wasn't an invitation to try!" Charlie chided, striding back over and spilling a few pills on the way. "Look, I'm sorry about the wisecrack. It's just…" Words failed him. He tried again. "I mean, if this had happened and you were alone in the house…"

Alan sighed quietly and scratched behind one ear. Charlie and Don were concerned about him, he realized that. And yes, he was lucky his sons were here to help him out, otherwise he might very well have spent the evening on the kitchen floor.

"I know," he said finally.

Charlie emptied out two new pills into his hand and gave them to Alan, who took them dry.

"Good," Charlie said. "And I hope you _also_ know that your knees aren't supposed to just randomly pick a direction without your brain's consent. We want to get you checked out, okay? If there's really nothing wrong with you, you're perfectly welcome to scream at us on the way home."

"I might just do that anyway," Alan grumbled, but without any heat.

"Okay guys, let's get out of here," Don said, jogging back in. "Dad, who are we going to see?"

"What time is it?" Alan asked in response.

Don checked his watch. "'Bout seven."

"Eh, then we should probably just go to Huntington and get a referral," Alan said. "I think Dr. Zenke is closed for the day."

Don and Charlie assumed their earlier positions and again hauled him up, staying at his side and helping him walk. Alan kept each of his arms slung over a set of strong shoulders, and both of his sons took his weight as needed. He winced every time his right foot touched the floor; the Tylenol wouldn't be kicking in for a while. His gut twisted as his scientific background kicked in. The observed evidence of the last few minutes came crashing down on him, along with the inevitable hypothesis: this might actually be something serious.

And Charlie smelled funny for some reason.

He only caught the scent because he was in such close proximity to his younger son, but it was definitely funky; he took the opportunity to surreptitiously sniff him. Charlie gave him an odd sharp look and he played it off like he was just clearing out his nose, deciding to wait until later and ask him about it in private. Maybe it was something he ate?

Between Alan's distraction and Don and Charlie's worry, nobody said anything. They moved very slowly out of the house and onto the porch, stopping only so Charlie could borrow Don's key and lock the front door behind them. With reasonable grace they made it down the steps and over to the driveway. Don's black SUV was waiting there with the right back door open, the unlock indicator in the dashboard dinging softly.

* * *

This Spanish title is pronounced "Trehs OHM-brehs theh ro-THEE-yass en lah koh-SEE-nah." Taken directly from the central image of this last bit, it translates as "Three men on their knees in the kitchen." 


	6. Cinco

**Chapter ****5**: _A mi vida le falta cuatro dientes_

Don plopped down at his desk with his mid-morning cup of coffee (not to be confused with his early-morning cup or his late-morning cup) and stared at the forms in front of him. The sound of someone clearing their throat got him to look up and he did so, but without any energy or enthusiasm. The only really good thing he could say about the past two days was that the heat wave had broken. He slurped his coffee and turned his bleary eyes on Megan.

"Looks like you had an exciting weekend," she commented.

Don snorted. "You could say that. Between taking care of Dad and helping Charlie, I was lucky to survive it."

Megan crossed her arms, concerned. "What?"

Don scratched his head. "I was at the house all day on Saturday and Sunday. Dad needed help doing some things, and Charlie was cleaning up. Amita's having her wisdom teeth out today and he's bringing her home to let her recover there."

"And your Dad needed help because …?"

"He messed up his knee on Friday night. Charlie and I took him to Huntington and they gave him a brace and crutches and some mild pain stuff." Megan nodded. "Then they sent him home for the weekend to _rest_, which he refused to do. He was hobbling all over the place. Made a total pest of himself. He – He…" Don sighed. "He _would_ not stay down. He was like the frickin' Energizer bunny. It made Charlie totally nuts. So once he was done cleaning he turned his anxiety on the _Villanueva_ case…"

"And made _you _totally nuts," Megan perceptively filled in.

Don pointed at her like "bingo" and took another swig of his drink. He was annoyed but not at all surprised when Megan laughed at his plight. He knew she had siblings so she probably knew exactly what he was going through, and apparently the definition of comedy as "tragedy that happens to somebody else" still held water. To her credit, Megan calmed down quickly.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, we might have a new lead on the Villanueva case to check out," she said. "In fact, that's what I was coming to tell you."

"Oh?"

"Officer Randall called while you were getting your coffee. He said that the Cabrillos – the family that owns the property where Alcarán and Villanueva bought it – just got back from vacation."

"Great. Why don't you take Liz and head down there and interview them? Matter of fact, as long as you're out there…" Don trailed off, setting down his brew and pawing through the papers on his messy desk in search of something.

"Cruise around Palos Verdes and window-shop?" Megan suggested.

"Funny," he deadpanned. "Damn. I lost it. I know it's here somewhere." He gave up and turned back to her. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Randall will have the name. See if he can lead you to that gardener, the one who found Villanueva. Maybe he'll remember something else. Charlie is running some kind of meta-something-or-other on the vics to find connections, but for now, this is all we can do until we get another lead."

"You got it," Megan said, already moving to her desk to set some paperwork down and grab her things. "Hey, Warner!" she called. "We're heading out to Palos Verdes. Let's go!"

Liz dropped her pen, scooped up her purse and weapon – a little too eagerly in Don's opinion – and trotted over to Megan. Don raised an eyebrow at the two of them. Megan and Liz had become fast friends, and he was very pleased that they'd hit it off. He made a mental note to pair them up as often as he could from now on, because he knew how valuable it was for them to be allowed to be women _and_ FBI agents instead of having to choose one identity over the other. But he didn't like Megan's excited tone or Liz's reaction, which probably had something to do with their destination. Palos Verdes was just as noted for its shopping as for its scenery. They came over to his cubicle and he stood to see them off.

"All right Reeves, you're in charge. I expect a report by lunch … and _not_ from some cute café that you just had to try," he finished, glancing between them.

Sure enough, the light went out of Liz's eyes a little bit. Megan was far too experienced and coy to give herself away – she merely gave him an arch look.

"Agent Eppes, I'll have you know that we are professionals," she said sternly. "We would never screw around on company time. Come on, Warner."

And the two of them walked off together side by side maintaining their stoic facades. He watched them, curious how long they could pull it off.

They were shaking with pent-up giggles by the time they reached the elevator.

Don rolled his eyes at this but went back to work with no worries. He knew with absolute certainty that "the girls" (as he affectionately called them in his head) would get the job done.

* * *

The doorbell rang in Pasadena. It was quickly answered by the sound of squeaks on the hardwood floor, due to brand-new rubber tips on the ends of crutches. Alan balanced as well as he could and heaved the door open. 

The sight of Amita, sleepy and unsteady and chipmunk-cheeked, stopped him dead for a moment. "Oh my God honey, you look like you just went ten rounds with somebody," he lamented. "Here, come in, please."

"Mrak, mrr uhh," Amita said politely. Her mouth was still stuffed with cotton from the operation and she was completely incomprehensible, although she didn't seem to realize it.

"Ah ah, don't talk," Alan chided gently, trying to hide a smile. "Come on, this way," he beckoned.

Still half in a daze from her twilight cocktail at the dentist's office, Amita toddled into the house – which incidentally hadn't been this clean in recent memory, the wood was _gleaming_ – and stood stupidly in the entryway like a lost sheep. Alan observed this with some amusement. A few seconds later a rather frazzled Charlie stepped in, a big plastic bag of medical stuff in one hand and a flower-patterned overnight bag slung over the other shoulder. He almost walked right into her.

"Whoa. Okay Amita, let's go upstairs. You have several rooms to choose from," he added with a touch of pride. Then he looked at his father, who was standing way too close for his liking and looked ready to jump in to assist, bum knee and all. "Dad, sit down and rest your leg. Please."

Alan looked a little sour. "Fine," he grumbled. "Not like I can get up the stairs anyway."

"Yeah, thankfully," Charlie muttered under his breath.

He pulled an arm around Amita and guided her over to the staircase; together they plodded up to the second floor landing. Upon their arrival Amita looked around slowly, came to a drug-addled decision, and aimed herself for an open door on her left. She managed to point.

"Mrr?" she asked.

Charlie snorted and gently pulled her back as she actually tried to move toward it. "Oh that's, um, that's the bathroom. I don't think you'd be comfortable in there. How about you take my room? It's just right here," he explained, gesturing to the next door over, doing his best to sound casual even as his heart pounded.

"Aggh," she agreed. Amita was sort of touched that he was offering her his room, even though it was sure to be …

He led her in and she gasped. The drugs were playing tricks on her – it was the only explanation. This was not Charlie's bedroom. It couldn't be.

The space, normally a knee-high mess of cow-patterned Mead composition notebooks and academic tomes of all sizes and colors, a consistently unmade bed and the rest of the furniture buried under mountains of scratch paper, pencil shavings and broken electronic devices (Alan charitably called it "math leavings"), was so tidy as to be unrecognizable. Every wooden surface was polished to a shine – the desk, the bureau, the nightstands – there were even some small pictures on display. A little clay pot of fresh marigolds sat on the nightstand nearest the door. The hardwood floor and the two burnt-orange area rugs were spotless. The windows had been left open with just the screens up to keep out any enterprising bugs. A nice breeze was ruffling the parted white curtains and since it was nearly eleven the sun was streaming in, warming the pale walls and hitting patches of the bed, a small but sturdy mahogany number made up with a butter-yellow down comforter and a few fluffy pillows.

Amita stared at the room for a long moment and then turned her baffled expression on Charlie. He was blinking at her gently with one of those shy, pained, "Please God, figure it out so I don't have to say it" looks that he did so well, and she gave him a visible smile (which hurt her face) and squeezed his hand. Amita knew Charlie wasn't so much of a "word" guy, despite his extensive vocabulary. He'd always done better at showing how he felt through his actions, and he'd obviously worked very hard for her even though he could have gone to far less trouble. Her body flooded with warmth at the thought. She knew what this meant, what this confirmed. For a moment she was too moved to speak.

"Chai, mrak," she said at length, and very earnestly. "Mrak ech shaw meh. Icch brrfll."

And thankfully the one person in the universe who could correctly interpret that string of nonsense was standing next to her.

"You're welcome," Charlie said quietly, squeezing her hand back. "I'm glad you like it. Let's get you into bed so you can rest, okay?"

Amita nodded and a tear escaped. She told herself it was the Vicodin, but another one joined it in spite of her insistence. Charlie said nothing. He just lightly flicked both of them off her swollen cheeks with his fingertips and closed the door behind them.

* * *

Liz stretched her arms over her head and yawned before undoing her seatbelt and stepping out into the sunshine. Megan, already out of the driver's seat and looking around the parking lot, had driven them out to the Palos Verdes Estates PD headquarters. Officer Randall had explained on the phone that the gardener, Juan Gutierrez, would meet them at the station. 

The two women shared a look over the top of the car and sauntered into the nearby headquarters, a large white building with an abundance of marble everything inside and an echo that would have done a concert hall proud. They stood in the foyer and waited for only a few moments. A smiling man with a paunch and a grey uniform came hurrying forward to meet them.

"Agents Reeves and Warner?" he asked.

"Yes sir, that's us," Megan said with a smile, and held out a hand, which was enthusiastically shaken. "Is Mr. Gutierrez here?"

"Just arrived. Please follow me. Um, can I get you ladies anything?" he asked solicitously, leading them down the impressive hallway towards an interrogation room. "Coffee? Tea?"

"No thanks," Liz said, a little amused by his attitude. She wondered idly if it was the hips or the gun that was having this effect.

"All right," he replied, stopping at the first interrogation room.

The women peeked inside – two men were sitting at the table, both very dark from the sun and dressed in ratty work clothes. Each of them had hung a beaten-up straw hat on a corner of his chair. One man was much younger than the other, and he seemed to be patiently trying to convince the elder of something.

"The young guy is his son Raúl," Randall said, answering her unspoken question. "He speaks English fluently, so he wanted to be here to make sure there weren't any misunderstandings."

"Okay," Megan said. "You ready?" she asked Liz, who nodded.

They went in. And they came out thoroughly frustrated an hour later. The elder Gutierrez, suspicious of the authorities, kept claiming that he didn't remember anything useful, although he went on and on about his gardening business. Any attempt at asking for small details of what he remembered was staunchly rebuffed, with shifty eyes. Raúl must have said "_¡Papi, diles por favor!_" a dozen times. Finally he threw his hands up, looking just as frustrated as the two women and apologized to them for his dad acting so goddamn _burro_ … at which his father smacked him upside the head, causing a thunderously angry argument in Spanish that made Liz laugh and Megan pinch the bridge of her nose. Liz even joined in at one point, which impressed Megan.

But in the end they got nothing. It was only plain that Juan Gutierrez knew more than he had let on, and that he was terrified of talking to the Feds.

"You know," Liz pointed out as they drove over to Rolling Hills, "I don't think he was scared to talk to us because he thought we'd endanger his immigration status. If he thought we were a threat to him staying here, he wouldn't have agreed to come at all."

Megan agreed. "Somebody has him running scared. With any luck, we'll get some answers at the Cabrillos."

A few minutes later, they were rolling up to the curb near the house. Liz made a face at the tacky house and its silly sign.

"God, this place is some mean kind of ugly."

Megan smirked and they got out. "So we'll have to fantasize about living in some other neighborhood around here?"

"You mean one without dead bodies?" Liz bantered. "What a great idea."

Megan laughed. They prepared to show their badges and rang the doorbell. Instantly there were barking and scritching noises inside, and a man's voice was commanding, "Pepe, stay back! Zulema, can you get him?" There was a pause during which a woman could be heard clucking at the dog and leading it away and the door opened a few inches.

A rather skinny Mexican-American man in his forties, well-dressed with short black hair and glasses, peeked out.

"May I help you?" he asked politely.

"You certainly can," Megan replied, flashing her badge. "Are you Thomas Cabrillo?"

There was a flash of something on the man's face – wariness, fear, Megan wasn't quite sure of what – and then it was gone, replaced by calm.

"_Tomás_," he corrected her. "Yes, that's me."

Megan nodded. "Well, I'm Agent Reeves, this is Agent Warner, and we're with the FBI. As I'm sure you're aware, a crime was committed on your property while you were out of town. We just have a few questions to ask you. May we come in?"

"Of course. _Pásale, por favor_." He opened the door wide and ushered them in.

Liz and Megan followed him and took a moment to stare around. The inside of the house could not have been more different from the outside. The sleek entryway gave way to a magnificent living room lined with well-stocked bookshelves and a baby grand piano on the left. Two matching beige couches were set up in the middle, facing each other across a glass-topped coffee table strewn with copies of the Smithsonian magazine and Architectural Digest. A lovely dining room to the right showcased a spare table and straight-backed chairs, all done in a clean minimalist style. The wealth on the outside was gaudy; here it was understated and elegant.

Just then two small, tawny-skinned girls ran by shrieking happily. The shorter of the two was chasing the taller one, babbling in Spanish and trying to grab her ponytail. It effectively ended their contemplation of the decor.

"Isabel! Ana María!" Tomás barked at them. "No running in the house!"

The girls tried to follow the order. The bigger one managed to slam on the brakes, but the little one couldn't stop quickly enough and knocked into her playmate, throwing them both to the floor in a giggling, breathless heap. Just then a woman came into view with an apron around her waist. She cast a slightly exasperated look at the girls and ignored the barks of the dog (which had been locked in the kitchen if the noise was any indication), choosing instead to wipe her wet hands on her apron. She was a handsome woman with a long face, jet-black hair, striking green eyes and skin tone only slightly lighter than the man's.

"My wife Zulema," Tomás introduced. "And my daughters Isabel and Ana María."

"HI!" the girls chorused from their pile on the floor.

Megan smiled. "Oh, they're adorable. How old are they?"

"Isabel is nine, and Ana María…" He turned to his little one. "_Mija¿cuantos años tienes?_"

"_Tengo seis, Papi._"

"And when is your birthday?" he asked, switching languages on a dime.

"Next week!" she shouted excitedly.

"She's six," Tomás explained.

"And bilingual," Liz noted.

"Well, one would hope," Tomás said a little slyly. "We might live in America, but I teach Spanish for a living. Please. We can all sit down in here."

"Um, minus the girls, I think," Megan said politely. "The situation isn't good and they're a little young."

Zulema nodded. She clapped her hands and got the attention of the sisters; the older one had won the wrestling match by picking up the little one and was now carrying her piggyback around the dining room, patiently accepting the firm grip on her ponytail.

"Izzy? We need to talk to these ladies. Take Ana and go play in the backyard, all right?"

Isabel nodded. "Okay, _mamá_."

"But don't go far!"

"Yes, _mamá_."

She waved her daughter off. "_Ándale_."

"Hang on, Ana!" Isabel commanded.

And she took off at a jog down the hallway. Ana María, delighted that the ride was speeding up, cheered her on. The noises got fainter and then a door closed.

Megan allowed herself a smile as she and Liz sat down on one sofa. The Cabrillos settled themselves on the one opposite. Megan briefly explained to the Cabrillos why they were here. Zulema, after hearing only the bare bones of the situation, paled slightly.

"So, just for a little background, you teach … where?" Megan asked.

"I'm a part-time professor of Spanish Literature at Dominguez Hills. Zulema teaches piano out of our house. She has a quite a few students."

"I see," Liz said.

"Um, no offense, but this seems like a lot of house for two teachers' salaries," Megan commented.

"Well, Zulema's brother helped us out," Tomás replied, looking a little nervous. "He's very good to us. Of course, he had his input on the outside of the place, but the inside is all our doing."

Megan smiled. "That would explain a lot. Zulema, um, who is your brother?"

Zulema looked at her placidly, and answered just a fraction too late. "Julio. Julio Ramirez," she said.

"I see," Megan said, and wrote that down.

Right next to it, in a habit born of so many years working in psychology, she wrote the word 'LYING' in capital letters. The visual denouncement was so big that all Liz needed was a casual look to spot it. She realized immediately what she had to do.

"I'm so sorry but Agent Reeves, could you continue with the interview?" she said. "Mrs. Cabrillo, if you wouldn't mind, I need to use your restroom."

"Oh, certainly," Zulema said. She looked relieved at the change of topic. "Follow me."

Liz walked away after her with a small but meaningful look at Megan, who pretended not to register it. With the other two gone, Megan was free to talk to Tomás. She explained to him in more detail what had happened out behind his house in the run-down stable, and by the end of her story his hands were clenched so tightly around the fabric of his khaki pants that they would be wrinkled later.

"So Mr. Cabrillo, I suppose the question is whether you know anyone by the name of Gabriel Villanueva, or Luis Alcarán."

The head-shake was very stiff. "I … can't say that I do. Sorry."

"I see," she said. Then she licked her lips, bored into his black eyes with her green ones, and turned on the juice. "Mr. Cabrillo, you do realize that withholding information from the FBI in the middle of an open investigation could land you and your family in a lot of trouble."

Tomás swallowed, but tried to remain calm. "Perhaps you didn't hear me," he said quietly. "Allow me to repeat myself." He did so, very slowly and deliberately. "I can't say that I know Gabriel Villanueva or Luis Alcarán."

And the double-meaning of his words was suddenly clear. Megan blinked, but decided to play along. How on earth had this mild-mannered college professor gotten linked up with two dead thugs? As she was about to ask him another question, Zulema came back into the room.

"Fine," she said. "I get it. Would this have anything to do with Julio Ramirez?"

Tomás eyed her for a moment. "I think this interview is over, Agent."

That was a 'yes' if Megan had ever heard one. But Cabrillo was scared and wary, Zulema was looking at her husband in fright, and the profiler was already coming up with an idea why. Zulema's brother, whatever his real name was, sounded very dangerous. Just then a toilet flushed and Liz came back from the bathroom. Megan stood up.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Cabrillo, Mrs. Cabrillo," she said. "We'll be in touch with you if we have any more questions. Is that all right?"

"Certainly," Tomás said, a vein of ice in his voice indicating the exact opposite.

Megan pretended not to notice. "Oh, before we go, I was just curious. 'I and A' ranch?"

"Isabel and Ana María," Zulema explained. There was a certain warmth and protectiveness just in her pronunciation of the words. "We wanted this little _ranchito_ to be a haven for the girls."

"Beautiful names," Liz commented. "Are they after _tías_, or something?"

"No," Tomás said with a sad smile. "We didn't really want to associate them with … relatives. They're after Isabel Allende and Ana María Matute."

Liz nodded in understanding. "Well, thank you for your time. We'll be on our way."

The door shut behind them before they were two steps off the porch. They walked back to the car and climbed in without a word to each other. Both of them were wrapped up in their own thoughts for about a three blocks.

"So I sneaked into the bedroom when I was supposed to be in the bathroom," Liz said finally.

Megan raised her eyebrows, impressed at the subterfuge. "And?"

"I found a picture of Zulema and Tomás at their wedding. Huge family portrait. Guess who was standing next to her in the 'older brother' spot?"

"Who?"

Liz licked her lips. "Pedro Mata."

Megan was so surprised that she braked a little. "Are you serious?"

"Yep," Liz said. "Want me to call Don?"

"Yes, right now. And then we need to find a cute café, just to annoy him. Hey, great stuff in the interview room with Gutierrez, by the way. I didn't know you were fluent."

Liz looked at her incredulously, cell phone at the ready.

"Well come on! I didn't want to make assumptions," Megan rallied. "I mean, after all, your last name is Warner."

"And my mom's maiden name is Navarro," Liz shot back with a grin. "Speaking Spanish is pretty handy around here, let me tell you."

"No kidding," Megan said. "So, you ready for lunch?"

Liz was definitely ready for lunch. She was also completely comfortable with Megan, so she got down with her mother's Highland Park roots. Without preamble she made her seat recline like she was kickin' it in somebody's low-rider and took in the leather upholstery of the car as though for the first time.

"_Hórale, pinche Batman_. Let's go."

Megan laughed and cranked it, taking them back to Palos Verdes as Liz dialed Don's number to give him the good news.

* * *

The title of this chapter is pronounced "Ah mee BEE-thah leh FAHL-tah KWA-troh thee-EN-tess." Inspired by Amita's loopy attempts at speech, it means "My girlfriend is missing four teeth." (_En español_, people often refer to their romantic companions as "_mi vida_," a term of affection which literally translates as "my life.") 

A note on the Spanish:

"_Hórale_, _pinche Batman (OH-rah-ley, PEEN-cheh BAT-man)"_ is an expression straight out of the 'hood. It translates as "Yo, check out fckin' Batman over here," but said with affection between friends, it's hardly an insult. A car in the _barrio_ (neighborhood) is an object of intense personal pride. So in this setting, it is the equivalent of the standard-English phrase, "My, you have an impressive automobile. Let's tool around in it, shall we?"

**Admission**: In case it's not obvious, I am a language dork. Raise your hand if you are too!


	7. Seis

**Chapter ****6**: _Frágil_

"Dad, hurry up! We'll be late!"

It was 3:05 and Charlie was in a frazzle, pacing in the living room and punching buttons on his cell. He was trying the familiar number one last time. Alan had been referred to a specialist in Glendale, an orthopedic surgeon of considerable repute, and his appointment was for today at 3:30. If they didn't get moving within the next two minutes then by Charlie's calculations they didn't have a prayer of making it. And Larry, who should have arrived at the house by now (he'd offered to watch over Amita while they were gone) was late. His voicemail picked up. Again.

"_This is Dr. Lawrence Fleinhardt. I'm sorry, but I am unable to come to the phone at this time. Please wait for the beep and rattle the magnificent electron sea around us with your delightful sound waves! I look forward to receiving them. BEEP"_

Charlie hung up and muttered something foul under his breath. The squeak of crutches caught his attention as Alan came hobbling over.

"Charlie, what's the matter? Where's Larry?"

"I have no idea," Charlie snapped, running his fingers through his hair. "And we can't wait any more. If we miss this appointment, the guy won't be able to see you until next week."

The pounding on the door startled them both, and outside on the porch an excited tenor voice bellowed, "I'm here! I'm here!"

Charlie ran over and opened the oak door for his mentor, who burst in carrying a cloth bag full of board games and random electronic equipment. Larry bent over, breathing hard. Charlie found the sight amusing and felt some of his anger drain away.

"Glad you made it, Larry. So Amita's upstairs," he instructed, grabbing his car keys from the round table near the sofa, "There's plenty of food and drinks in the fridge, and we shouldn't be gone too long. You'll be okay?"

Larry, still wheezing, simply nodded. Charlie clapped him on the back. "Good man. Come on, Dad."

* * *

At 3:30, a smoggy afternoon haze hung over the 110 freeway. Megan and Liz were sitting in traffic in the carpool lane, crawling along at a delightful 27 miles an hour and bored out of their minds.

After their success at the Cabrillos' residence, they'd given in to their hunger and located _Füd_, a slick little bistro tucked away in an elegant outdoor shopping center near the bluffs in Palos Verdes. Megan had insisted that the pretentiously misspelled name alone was worth the price of admission, and Liz agreed. They'd taken a leisurely lunch until three and even called Don from their table and described exactly what they were doing, just to needle him. (Fortunately their boss had a well-developed sense of humor.)

But now that pleasant experience was behind them and they were back on the job, and traffic sucked. Liz sighed. Suddenly Megan's radio crackled, dragging them both out of their stupor.

"4801, this is dispatch, I have a call from HQ."

"This is 4801," Megan said, picking it up. "Who from HQ wants to talk to me?"

"3695."

She knew that number. "Go ahead."

There was a click as the dispatcher put the caller through and hung up.

"Megan? Liz? Are you two still out there?" Don asked. He sounded worried for some reason.

Both women's antennae went up. "We're on the 110, just coming up on Rosecrans," Megan responded. "Is everything okay?"

There was a short bark of bitter laughter. "No. No, it's not. Listen, I'm calling on an emergency frequency, so I have to get off pretty quick. Local authorities just handed something over. I have an address for you two to hit in Inglewood. Liz? You have a pen?"

Liz fished one out of her purse along with her notepad. "Go ahead."

"It's an empty toy warehouse on the corner of South Cherry and 118th. There's been a murder, and it got kicked to us. When you're done, head to my brother's house in Pasadena. There's um, there's no point in coming back to headquarters today."

"No point? Why?" Megan was crushing the receiver in her hand. The tone of Don's voice … something had gone seriously wrong downtown, she was sure of it.

"Because they evacuated half the building. Look, I'll explain when you get to Pasadena," he said curtly. "I really have to get off. Just check out the crime scene and meet me at Charlie's, okay?"

"Ten-four," said Megan. She released the connection and turned to Liz, who mirrored her worried expression. "Well, at least Inglewood isn't too far."

"Yeah," Liz agreed. Her voice was quiet and tiny. "Not far at all."

She made no comment when Megan doggedly cut across four lanes of traffic to get to the exit and ignored the horns. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could get some answers out of their boss.

* * *

– _Twenty minutes earlier –_

Don was bent over the central table in the conference room, poring over the evidence on the Alcarán murder. There had been some news from the morgue about another case, so without any delay David had been sent down to find out what Claudia had for them. Don meanwhile was looking through the cell phone records taken from Alcarán's phone, part of the "odds and ends" from CSI. The log was pretty long, and he briefly gave thanks that Charlie had seen it over the weekend. Always handy to have a human Rolodex around when things got crazy. A knock on the door made him look up.

Agent Andrés Moreno was on the other side of the glass partition, cradling a large pile of mail in one arm and triumphantly holding up a miniature tape with his free hand. Don jogged over and let him in.

"Hey, Andi. What's this?"

"Your last tape," he said, handing it over. "I know I sent down the other box –"

"Yeah, it's right there," Don said, pointing to the cardboard box full of miniature cassettes on the table.

"– and I found _this_ little bastard hiding under my desk. This is the big one, the one with Villanueva talking to Mata in a meeting. It's from about ten days ago. I didn't want you guys to be without it. Have you been able listen to the other stuff yet?"

"No, the weekend was pretty busy," said Don. "But we'll get right on it. Hey, thanks a lot, by the way. All of this information is really helpful."

Andi shrugged. "Hey man, just because I'm not on the case anymore doesn't mean I don't want to get this guy. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"You bet. See ya," Don said casually.

He saw him out, closed the door and got back to work.

Andi took off with strong steps, very pleased that he'd found that last tape. Now he just had to deal with his mail. It wasn't exactly a pile of love letters, but nevertheless he was grateful for the relative privacy and quiet. Hardly anyone was around on this floor at the moment; he wandered by the empty cubicles usually occupied by Don and his team and flipped through the gigantic pile of envelopes, most of which were battered inter-office packages, coffee-stained and covered with crossed-out scribbles. He found a fat squishy dark-yellow envelope on the bottom, put it on the top of the pile and quickly unwound the red string to open it with a sigh of boredom, assuming it was the new contracts his team leader up in OCU had been going on about last week.

It wasn't.

The explosion wasn't terribly impressive, but it was loud enough to catch Don's ear. He looked up in concern, which ratcheted up a notch when saw the plume of smoke, and before he consciously knew what he was doing he was grabbing his gun and racing out into the bullpen, only to run smack into ground zero. Professionalism abandoned him – "Holy shit!" – and he charged over to the prone figure on the floor.

The blast zone was tiny. A few things nearby were singed, mail was scattered everywhere, the air was smoky, and that was about it. The worst damage had been inflicted on the addressee. Agent Moreno lay blinking and dazed in the center of a paper storm, flat on his back and unable to speak or move. Burns were forming on his face and arms, and he was starting to bleed heavily from the bits of shrapnel embedded in his neck and chest.

Don holstered his gun and knelt beside his colleague to feel for a pulse. The other agent was quivering with shock and losing the fight to remain conscious.

"Andi, stay with me, you hear me?" Don said in a clear, penetrating voice as he rolled up his sleeves. "Don't you dare give up! Keep your eyes open! You're gonna be fine!"

Andi did his best to follow orders. And then he started coughing up blood.

_Or not_, Don thought with a wince and turned at the sound of pattering feet. Other people had heard the noise and had come to help.

"Agent down!" he shouted. "Call the paramedics! Now! And somebody get the First Aid kit! Let's go, people!"

A nearby junior agent jumped at his order and ran for it, whipping out his cell phone and heading out to the balcony for better reception. A colleague standing next to him hared off for the kit. And another agent – Hill or Hull or something – came over and knelt on the other side of the victim, wadding up his suit jacket and placing it under Moreno's head. Don looked around and spotted a Kleenex box on Liz's desk. With one quick motion he stood up, grabbed it and started ripping out tissues, which he dipped into the injured man's mouth to try and sop up some of the blood. Andi, by some miracle, still had his eyes open. Building security was starting to push through the rapidly-forming crowd asking questions but Don kept his eyes on his colleague.

"Andi, you're doing great, man. The ambulance will be here really soon. Just hang on."

A security guard came over to stand near them and put his hands on his hips. He looked sadly clueless, and stood there just trying to impart some authority and stay out of the way. Then something gripped Don's wrist and he looked down to see that Agent Moreno had a weak hold of it. His dark eyes fluttered closed and he coughed up some more blood (which splattered on Don's shirt).

"Oh Christ. Come on Hill, help me," Don ordered.

The two of them gently tipped the fallen agent on his side and tried to get his mouth clear. Thick, dark blood spooled from his blistering lips and oozed onto the tile floor.

"Hunt," said the man across from Don.

Don looked up in confusion. "What?"

"My name is Hunt."

"Sorry," Don said absently, and turned his attention back to his charge.

The seconds ticked by. He felt Andi's pulse go thready and listened for the inevitable hitch of breath, preparing himself to administer CPR if the man's lungs gave out before help arrived. Just as he was trying to remember if it was 15 or 30 pushes between the two rescue breaths, there were sirens in the distance. And after a few agonizing moments it was clear that Andi's breath was hitching and painful but not stopping, so Don did the only thing he could in the absence of bandages in front of him or paramedics coming up behind him. He put one hand on the back of the other agent's head and the other on his shoulder, steadying him with the touch and contact.

"You just hang in there, okay?" he asked quietly. "You're tough. You'll be fine."

He sincerely hoped his words weren't empty promises.

* * *

– _Now – _

At 4:15 Megan and Liz rolled up at the crime scene and hopped out just outside the yellow-taped perimeter. The little street lined with warehouses was dusty and quiet. They flashed their badges at the local cops, who led them inside, and Liz had to force herself to slow down and really look around properly as she was putting on the latex gloves. Don's transmission had rattled her more than she would care to admit.

The murder scene was gloomy and grey. It was like most other empty warehouses she'd been in – high ceiling, no walls, big square frames of dust and rust and wood shavings on the cement floor where machines or big crates had been at some point in the past – and a little chilly. The most interesting things here were the body in the middle of the floor and the set-up against the far right wall. Light filtered in through the grimy windows high above them, spotlighting the corpse to its mid-line and leaving the rest in shadow. CSI was poking around taking pictures and setting down their little yellow markers that, in another setting, could have passed for those plastic "take a number" things at Carl's Jr.

Liz walked over to the body. Latino, about 5'10" and maybe 180 pounds. The dead man was dressed casually – jeans, loafers, a seer-sucker shirt and glasses. Three pens sat in his breast pocket. Liz knelt down. Single shot to the forehead. The gun that probably did it lay next to him on the concrete.

This set-up was starting to look familiar.

"How long has the body been here?" she asked of the closest CSI, an Asian guy about her age with sleek black hair in a ponytail and long elegant fingers.

"Well, hasn't been moved since he died," the guy said. "We put time of death at about 14 hours, so roughly midnight last night. A homeless guy found it and made the report."

"And did you guys find ID?" she queried, already suspecting the answer.

"Sure did. Wallet and cell phone," the investigator replied. He handed them to her in an evidence bag. "Name's Silvio Torres."

"Silvio Torres," she murmured. "And did you find anything else? Bottles, maybe?"

Now the investigator was looking at her suspiciously. "I did, actually. I found a couple of Modelo Negros in the trash. Why do you ask?"

"Because I just saw this MO last week," she said. "Do me a favor. I have a hunch. Take this guy back to the morgue and run a tox screen on him. See if you find roofies. Check out the gun for prints … and see what you can get for DNA from the bottles."

The CSI looked at her in surprise. "Sure. I don't know about the DNA, but I can have the tox results in a couple of hours. That's no problem."

"Great," she said, and gave him her card. "Put a rush on it, and call me immediately."

The CSI nodded and accepted her card. Liz maintained her calm gaze, but inwardly she was getting excited. If this was the same person who'd killed Alcarán, then maybe their guy had slipped up and left something behind.

Megan meanwhile wandered over to the right, where a small workstation had been set up. It was covered in small electronic devices and tools for building them – pliers of all shapes and sizes, big magnifying glasses, piles of wires – and some suspicious sacks under the table, shoved up against the wall. One of the local PD followed her, a fifty-something black guy with a world-weary look about him and a slight paunch.

"How long has this place been abandoned?" she asked, looking up from the cluttered workbench.

"Five years," he said. "The government bought it, so it's your case 'cuz it's your property, but the Feds didn't do anything with it so it was scheduled for demolition this month. Bet the city will push this through _fast_, considering what just happened."

"No kidding." Megan turned her attention back to the station, frowning at the supplies laid out. She peeked underneath. "What's this stuff in the sacks?" she asked and pointed.

The cop shrugged, crouched down and tugged the nearest sack out into the light. It was clearly heavy for its size and scraped against the floor as he dragged it.

"Well, let's find out," he said, and opened it. His eyes got big. "Whoa."

"What?"

"That, my friend, is C-4."

Megan peeked into the sack – the cop was absolutely right – and stared at him. "A whole _lot_ of C-4," she said. She looked back over at the body. "I think we have ourselves a former explosives expert."

* * *

The sun was low in the sky, splashing golds and reds across the roof of the Craftsman house when Charlie pulled up at 5:30 and parked his Prius. Alan was quietly dozing in the passenger's seat. In contrast, Charlie was gripping the wheel rather hard and his back was one giant knot. He blew out a slow breath.

Alan had been scheduled to meet with the surgeon at 3:30 but the receptionist had penciled in his father's appointment for 4:30 by mistake, with the result that they'd spent a mind-numbing hour in a bland waiting room listening to muzak and reading old magazines before the examination had finally happened, which meant that Larry had been on his own with Amita for … well, for too long. It wasn't that Charlie didn't trust Larry with Amita, but he hated the thought of leaving her with someone else for longer than he had to.

And now there was this. Don's SUV was parked on the street, Megan's sedan was parked just ahead of it, and the lights were on inside. People were moving around in the living room. What in the world was going on?

"Dad, we're here," Charlie said, and gently shook Alan's shoulder. He came to with a snort and blinked.

"Mm? Oh. Where are my crutches?"

"Back seat. Sit tight, I'll get them."

After helping his father out of the car, Charlie trotted up the porch steps. He forewent the lock and just knocked. Don opened the door. He was still armed and his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and only half tucked-in, was spattered with blood. The brothers stared at each other – Don in exhaustion and Charlie in a rising panic.

"What happened to you?" Charlie asked.

"What?" Then Don realized what Charlie was reacting to. "Oh, nothing, nothing," he said. "This is all somebody else. I just didn't have a chance to change. Come on, Dad needs to get inside. Move."

Don pulled Charlie into the foyer and Alan followed, eyeing his eldest in concern. "It's okay, Dad. I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look terrific," Alan said sarcastically, thunking his way past his sons.

Then he made the mistake of glancing around the front of the house, which was littered with papers and crawling with FBI agents. Granted he knew these FBI agents personally, but it was still kind of disconcerting. David gave him a solemn wave from his spot by the coffee table, Liz looked blandly at him from her seat nearby, and Megan was leaning on the mantel, chewing on her thumbnail. She nodded. Larry came down the stairs just then and peered around.

"I'm gonna lay down for a nap," Alan announced. "And when I get up, I expect an explanation. And it better make sense," he snapped.

He hobbled off to his bedroom and left Charlie and Don looking at each other. Charlie put his hands on his hips. Don, in response, scratched his head uncomfortably and closed the door.

"Well?" Charlie demanded testily. "What the hell's going on? Why has the FBI taken over my living room?"

Don sighed. "Sit down Charlie, I'll fill you in. We all just got here. Believe me, everybody else wants an explanation too. We were just waiting for you."

Charlie looked a little suspicious of that answer, but the way Megan and Liz nodded confirmed Don's story, so he allowed his brother to guide him over to the sofa. The others joined him and they all gathered in a circle.

"All right, so what happened?" Charlie asked.

"They evacuated HQ for the day," Don said. "This was the only place I could think of for us to convene. Megan, Liz, while you two were out, a fellow agent opened a package. He thought it was inter-office mail, and instead it was a very well disguised bomb that somehow got past security. It almost killed him. He was airlifted to USC. I can call for an update in an hour. At least we got a fingerprint off the inside of the package – they're running it through the system as we speak."

The others nodded grimly, and Don readied himself to say something very hard to his girlfriend.

"Liz," he said softly, "It was Andi. I'm so sorry. I know you two are friends."

The color leached out of Liz's face and she struggled to control herself as she met his gaze. "Damn letter-bomber case. Excuse me," she mumbled, standing up and walking quickly into the kitchen. Don looked after her and made to get up.

"Let her go, Don," Megan said. "Were you hurt at all?"

"Huh? No. I just – He just – he bled on me. That's it." He sat back down and rubbed his face. "Did you two find anything at the crime scene?"

"We did," Megan said, trying to remain professional. "Um, basically the new dead guy was an explosives expert. He was killed last night around midnight, right next to his little bomb-making studio. And he was murdered like Alcarán – shot in the forehead, weapon right nearby, ID and cell phone still on him. CSI is checking for roofies to see if the MO really is the same, but Liz and I both have a feeling that it is. Anyway, they're on the hunt for rogue DNA, and –"

She was interrupted by the shrill ring of Don's cell phone. He fished it out of his pocket.

"Sorry," he said, flipping it open. "Eppes. … Uh huh. … That's great. How do you spell that?" He found a pen and scribbled a name on some paper in front of him. "Yeah, got it. Okay, thank you very much." He hit 'end' and looked at the assembled. "We just got a hit on a fingerprint inside the bomb envelope. Anybody ever heard of a guy named Silvio Torres?"

Megan's eyes went wide. "That's our victim in Inglewood!"

Charlie was surprised, too. "That's also a name that came up in my meta-analysis."

Heads whipped around. He had everyone's interest.

"I was trying to link Villanueva and Alcarán, and one name that kept coming up as a high probability connection was Silvio Torres, along with the more obvious name of Pedro Mata," he explained. "I know Torres has a file. He's been linked to Mata for a couple of years." He scratched his head. "Did you get any more information at the crime scene?"

"Yeah, basic ID stuff – drivers' license, cell phone number, all that."

Don and Charlie looked at each other. And Don had a thought. "Megan … what was the cell number?"

Megan, thoroughly baffled as to where this was going but willing to ride it, fished out her notebook. "Uh … (323) 998-0672. Why?"

"That's the last dialed number in Alcarán's cell phone log," Charlie said, not missing a beat. "I remember it. Now obviously, we'll have to check Torres's log to confirm that he actually received the call and spoke to somebody. I remember Alcarán's phone number was (818) 083-9491."

"I … can actually help with that," Megan said, sounding a little amazed. "The CSI guy looked at the cell phone with me on the scene. Hang on." She flipped open her phone and called the forensics lab, which fortunately had escaped the evacuation. "Hello, yes, this is Agent Reeves. I need to speak with Nate Choi," she said. She waited for a moment, rolling her eyes as she held, and then snapped back into professional mode when she got him on the line. "Hi, Nate? This is Agent Reeves from the crime scene today. … Yes, it's been too long," she quipped. "Listen, I need you to run some numbers for me."

While Megan wandered off to handle the forensics, Don turned to Charlie. "So what happened with Dad? Did he get good news?"

Charlie looked very weary at this question. "No."

Don sobered. David, realizing he would only be in the way here, excused himself and made a beeline for the kitchen to see if he could help Liz. The brothers found themselves alone. Don looked at Charlie in expectation.

"No? What do you mean? What happened?"

"Well, his knee is so screwed up that he needs surgery. He's going in on Friday, and he's supposed to take it easy the rest of this week, which means that I'll be taking care of him _and_ Amita. By myself," he muttered at the end. Then he put on a polite smile. "The good news is that if he was going to mess up his knee, this was the way to do it, and this is the surgery to have."

"Oh yeah?"

Charlie nodded. "His LCL is shot. That's the ligament that stabilizes the outside of the knee. See what Dad did, according to the doctor, was he tore it slightly and it healed. So Dad, thinking it was okay, kept walking on it and tore it again, and it healed again, but not very well. And this last time, he seriously damaged it."

"Did he rip it?"

"No, fortunately. The tendon is still technically in one piece, but it's hanging on by a thread. So the doctor has to sew it back together, and there'll be a brace and…" He sighed. "Dad's not happy, let's put it that way."

Don snorted. "I can imagine. Is it, you know, major surgery?"

"Nah. Outpatient. They're doing it arthroscopically." Off of Don's blank look, he amended, "It's that thing where they make the little incisions and work inside the knee without actually opening up the skin. He'll go home the same day. And the LCL, while it is important, is nowhere near as dire a problem as the ACL or the MCL. So that's good."

Don nodded, pretending he understood that last part. Just then Megan came walking back over, and David poked his head out of the kitchen. Deciding the coast was clear, he came out, dragging a puffy-eyed Liz along after him.

"Okay, big news," Megan announced. "CSI just matched up death times and cell records and _phone numbers_," she emphasized with a smile at Charlie, "And they confirmed that the last number Alcarán called before he died was received by Torres. They had at least a three-minute conversation. We have a definite link."

There was a small pause as everyone took in this information. David and Liz found their seats, Charlie nodded at Megan, and Don just stared at the floor.

"I think I'm seeing how this went down," he said quietly.

He sounded far away and it was evident to everyone around him that his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. His team looked at him in concern, especially when he stood up and began to pace.

"Let me lay this out for you all, and you tell me if it makes sense. I'll start with Villanueva. He was four days gone when we found him, and that was Thursday, right?"

There were nods to continue.

"Okay, so we have an FBI informant who's in Rolling Hills on Monday. There he's attacked, tortured and killed by Alcarán. If we go on Megan's assumption that he tortured Villanueva for information, then we should assume that Alcarán found out the name of Villanueva's contact at the FBI. So then we have the CSI evidence that he called Silvio Torres before he was killed, which means that Torres must have received some kind of order. I think Torres took a few days to make the bomb and then had it smuggled into the FBI for Agent Moreno, because the last thing Alcarán knew was that Moreno was the contact. The bastard just didn't live long enough to find out that Andi had been taken off the case, or he probably would have had that bomb delivered to someone else. What do you think?"

"It sounds right to me," David said.

"But what about the killer?" Liz asked.

Don shook his head. "You know, Andi said that the evidence is pointing at some struggle within Mata's organization, but my gut says that these people were killed for a different reason." Suddenly seized by an idea, he stopped for a moment and paled. "The FBI," he said. "That's it. It's the FBI!"

He looked around the circle of confused faces, including Charlie's, which was never a good sign.

"I don't – Don, I don't think anybody gets what you're talking about," Charlie said.

"Sorry. Okay. Whoever is doing this … that person believes they're somehow protecting the FBI," Don said, getting into it. "… or avenging it, or something. Think about it. Villanueva was working for us. He gets killed by Alcarán, who's then murdered – ID on him, no money taken, murder weapon _in his hand_ – before he can escape. Sometime just before his death Alcarán orders Torres to make a hit on a federal agent based on the information he got from Villanueva, and Torres pulls it off, but _he's_ killed in the exact same way before the bomb even goes off. Right, you said last night at midnight, Megan?"

The profiler nodded.

"People, these men were killed for their crimes before we even knew what they'd _done_."

Bodies stiffened around the circle at Don's statement.

"So we're looking for a vigilante," Liz said.

Megan shook her head. "Not quite." The others turned to her with interest. "Don't get me wrong, somebody is definitely operating outside the law here, but the way these guys died?" She ran her fingers through her hair. "It doesn't look like the work of some random out-for-justice nut. I mean, they were incapacitated so they couldn't fight back and accidentally collect DNA, they were shot point blank in the head, and then they were dumped in pretty remote locations. The killer left no prints, no hair, no fibers … at least so far. Whoever took out these scumbags is a professional."

Don nodded in agreement. "An assassin."

* * *

This title is pronounced "FRAH-heel." (I wrote out the soft "g" noise as an h, but it's actually more of a back-of-the-throat sound.) The word literally translates as "fragile," but in this sense it is an instruction found on parcels – "Handle with Care."

**Premonition**: I wanted to have this story finished and uploaded by September 28th, when NUMB3RS makes its U.S. Friday night premiere for the 4th season – but I don't see that happening. Also, judging by the previews, this story will be AU as of the premiere. Is there interest in seeing how this tale resolves, or in deference to the show should I just stop? Please respond either way.

Best,

Kiki


	8. Siete

**Gratitude:** Major shout-out to everybody who wrote in after the last post and said, "AU? Who cares? Keep going!" I sincerely thank all of you (and everyone else who has reviewed so far) for your support. It means a lot to me.

**News**: So the S4 premiere totally rocked, and I'm relieved. Since I've had this written out in my head since August, it was great to see that this can go the way I had planned and not look like I'm copying the show. Some small elements of this (up to and beyond this point) are similar to what you saw in the premiere. Please trust that since this was dreamed up before I saw the episode, it's all coincidental. Really, it is. :D

Have fun and remember to review.

* * *

**Chapter 7**: _Papá se escapó_

On Wednesday at noon, things were finally looking up at Casa Eppes. Charlie, alone in the kitchen, whistled tunelessly as he poked around in the fridge on the hunt for soft foods. He was fixing a light lunch for Amita. This was good progress – she hadn't expressed any interest in food on Monday and yesterday she'd woken up with an upset stomach. (At every offering, all he'd gotten was an "Ugh" face and a belly-hold or a frantic "Oh please God no, get it away from me" wave.) Still, that was an improvement over the way he'd found her on Monday evening, when he'd left the FBI team to its business downstairs and went up to see her.

Two days later, he was still slightly incredulous. He couldn't get over what Larry had taken it into his head to do.

When Charlie had gone up to say hello to Amita, he'd found a quivering pile of bedclothes in her place. Concerned, he carefully peeled the comforter away and hollered angrily for Larry. Amita was blinking at him like a dazed lab animal and she had some bizarre metallic brace on her head that didn't look particularly comfortable. Electrical wires ran through the metal slats and the brace ended in two large metal discs, which rested on either side of her jaw. Larry was very cheerful when he entered in response to the summons. He didn't seem to notice that Amita actually shrank away from him. Charlie did though, and he saw red.

"_Ah, I see you found the coolant generator!"_

"_Cool- What the __**hell**__, Larry! I let you take care of her for a few hours and you __play Mr. Wizard? God Amita, I am so sorry. Let me get this off of you. And then I'll get rid of this __**total nut job**__ and find you some ice."_

Amita just nodded at him in relief. Her hands were too shaky for the task, so she let Charlie get the device off of her and they listened to his mentor's frantic self-defense. The brace, while it looked like some instrument of torture, was actually designed to be helpful. It was on a timer – on for sixty seconds, off for sixty seconds. When it was on, an electrical impulse would run through it into the metal discs, which were full of some substance (Charlie forgot the name) that responded to the impulses by plummeting to a freezing temperature. It was more efficient and accurate than Amita pressing ice packs to her face and guessing at the timing, Larry claimed. It was in fact the reason he nearly hadn't made it; he'd been working on it in his office.

The two young people stared him down – Charlie was looking particularly murderous – and Larry sensed (finally) that this well-intentioned scenario had not gone to plan. He made his escape while Charlie was gently examining Amita's face, clucking his tongue. She had minor freezer burns on her cheeks.

But all that was behind them now. After Charlie had calmed down and gotten Amita re-settled with towel-wrapped ice packs and some vitamin E crème, Larry had cornered him and apologized for his misguided assistance. They'd patched things up. And Amita, while still slightly chapped from the experience, was much happier today. She was still puffy and her speech wasn't 100 percent clear, but she was coming off the heavy-duty pain meds tomorrow and (miracle of miracles) she was a little hungry. Charlie set three small bowls of food – applesauce, chilled cucumber soup, and chocolate ice cream – on a tray and carried it out of the kitchen.

As he headed for the stairs, he passed his father's room and heard … nothing. The absence of sound didn't bother him. His dad was probably reading or taking notes to pass along to his business partner Stan when he called later. Alan had complained mightily about being forced to hang around the house for a week rather than going about his daily activities; he'd submitted to Charlie's requests to take it easy with no small amount of grumbling. And Charlie had _still_ caught him up and about a few times. It was maddening.

* * *

Don hung up his phone in disgust, tapped his pencil on the desk and stared off in thought, trying to ignore the unusually low noise level on their floor today. He had a new announcement to make to his team, he was tired, and it was only Wednesday, which didn't bode well. 

Monday night had not been restful. The team had finished working at Charlie's house a little after one. He'd invited them all to stay instead of driving home, so Megan and Larry sacked out in the solarium, Don and Liz took the guest room, David snagged the living room couch, and Charlie passed out in the garage since he totally forgot about finding himself a place to sleep in the house. In the end it turned out Charlie had made the right call – the combined forces of everyone's snoring had kept Don awake until four.

On Tuesday they'd been allowed back into the building but the atmosphere was tense. Everyone the floor was on edge after what had happened to Moreno. In fact, the only good news Don had been able to give the team had come on Tuesday afternoon: Andi had finally stabilized at USC.

That information had arrived courtesy of Laura, Andi's mother, who'd flown in from San Antonio the minute the news reached her. She'd only connected with Don by dumb luck. (Andi had mentioned Liz a few times, so Laura had been trying to reach her, but all the Bureau had been able to do was patch her through to Liz's supervisor.) After speaking to Don though, she'd declared that she was happy to call him regularly with updates for the team.

He swiveled around in his chair and caught the attention of everyone else, inviting them over to his cubicle. Megan, David, and Liz hefted themselves up and wandered over.

"So I just got another call from Mrs. Moreno," Don said.

"Oh my God, what happened?" Liz blurted out. "Is Andi all right? He didn't go south, did he?"

Don blinked at her. It took him a second to realize how heavily he'd said that. "No, no. Andi's okay. She just called to tell us that they moved him this morning to the burn unit at UCLA," he finished with some annoyance.

"Why?" Megan asked.

"Insurance crap," Don said. "His company will only work with UCLA or some nonsense like that, so they're moving him. Anyway he's still stable, and I was thinking that if nothing explodes today we could all go over for a couple of minutes and show our support – maybe see him and say hi."

The rest of the team nodded. It sounded like a good idea, and they were running low on good ideas at the moment.

"How soon can we go?" Liz asked.

"I don't know, how about two?" Don suggested. "If there's nothing pressing, we can all carpool."

The other three agreed and went back to their desks. Everyone was wading through paperwork on other cases.

Since Don's hypothesis on Monday night, the team hadn't made any new headway on the Villanueva/Alcarán/Torres case. The forensics guy had gotten back to Liz yesterday with the expected news – one bottle from the immediate crime scene had Torres's DNA all over it and trace amounts of roofies inside which matched the deceased's stomach contents. A search of a nearby dumpster had provided another bottle which also had trace on it and compounds that matched the murder scene, but while it contained DNA there were no fingerprints and no match to anybody in the system. All he could tell her was that the killer was male and had Northern European genetic tags. On hearing this, David had literally thrown his hands up.

"_Great. Three dead Latino thugs and all we can do is blame The Man."_

Sadly he was right, and Don knew it. Unless they could somehow predict this guy's next move, he would be in the wind for a _very_ long time. In fact, the more Don thought about it, the more he realized that their killer was probably going to get away with this, no matter what happened. Unsympathetic victims, no conclusive evidence … it was really pissing him off. They were stuck.

And then he remembered his brother. He chastised himself for not thinking of it earlier. Maybe Charlie could take a break from Amita duty and work a little math magic on this. Just as he reached for his desk phone, his cell trilled. He flipped it open without looking.

"Eppes." The frantic babble almost overpowered him. "Whoa whoa, Charlie, slow down. Take it easy! What happened? …"

By this point his team was looking up from their paperwork again and eyeing him. Their interest was completely captured as Don's expression went from puzzled, to incredulous, to thoroughly exasperated.

"_Dad's gone_. How the hell did that happen?" He snorted in disgust. "Yeah, that's cute, Charlie. Try again. …" He rolled his eyes as Charlie did. "Are you kidding me? He's a senior citizen, on _crutches_, with a…" He broke off for a second and winced as Charlie, angrily squawking on the other end, let him have it. "… All right, all right, just chill out. I'm on my way." He flipped his phone shut, sighed, and met his team's collective worried gaze. "Guys, I have a situation at the house. Can you all …"

"Go," said Megan. "We'll be fine. We'll get started on the tapes and meet you at the hospital."

"Great. Thanks." Don snagged his jacket and hurried for the elevator.

The whole team watched him step in and the doors close, making sure to appear absorbed in their work. The second he was gone Megan whirled on the other two with her best grinning busybody expression.

"Oh my God, did you _hear_ that?"

"What the _hell_ just went down at the house?" David asked. He barely got it out through the laughter.

Liz was giggling, too. "It sounds like Mr. Eppes ran away, or something."

"He was probably like, 'I can't take it! I'm goin' ta Vegas!' I bet Charlie's flipping out," David threw in.

"Hey, I would be," said Megan. Then she sobered. "Jeez, I hope everything's okay."

Liz nodded, getting her professional demeanor back. "Well if it isn't, we'll probably be the first to know." She started neatening up one of the piles of paperwork on her desk. "So not to party-poop, but we ought to get started on the tapes."

Megan and David groaned in tandem. Megan actually stuck her tongue out and made a raspberry.

"Yeah, I know, _Mira esa Rookie_," Liz said. "But seriously, we should. You promised Don!" she pointed out.

"Man, I hate it when the rookie's right," David grumbled. But he stood up. "Come on ladies, we can split the job three ways and get it done faster."

"Yeah, okay. Besides, it's a quarter to one," Megan said, checking her watch. "And we should get out of here at 1:30 at the latest."

* * *

Don pulled into the driveway at Charlie's house, locked his car and jogged up the porch steps. He let himself in and glanced around. 

"Charlie?"

Charlie walked out of the kitchen, rumpled and frantic. "This is my fourth pass. I can't find him anywhere. Amita's helping me look, too."

Don turned to his right where Amita, dressed in comfy pajamas and holding a towel-wrapped object to one side of her face, was combing through a bookshelf near the television, humming something unrecognizable. She peeked under an antique table, which plainly had nothing underneath it. And then she got on all fours and looked under the sofa.

"Alah!" she called, as though shouting into a canyon. "Wheh ah you?"

The Eppes brothers held each others' gaze for a moment.

"Kind of," Charlie amended curtly.

Don snorted.

"Hey, she wanted to get up for a little while and she insisted on looking. She's – She's just tired!" Charlie rose to her defense.

"Tired?" Don parroted. "Charlie, she's cracked-out on Vicodin!" Then he noticed his sibling's thunderous expression and held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm not saying she isn't normally helpful. But I mean, look at her!" he said.

He motioned behind Charlie, who turned just in time to watch Amita pick up a discarded newspaper from the table and throw it into the air. It fluttered to the floor and she watched its movements, absolutely mesmerized. Charlie sighed.

"Just get her upstairs, put her back to bed, and feed her a milkshake or something. I'll look for Dad, okay?"

The youngest Eppes nodded. "Fine. Amita, come here, sweetheart. Let's go."

Don shucked his coat. "Did you check the garage?"

"Of _course_ I checked the garage!" Charlie said irritably, trying to gently corral his girlfriend (who was moving away from him like they were playing tag in slow motion) and get her moving in the appropriate direction. "I checked everywhere!"

Don watched with some amusement as Charlie finally cornered Amita, slung an arm around her shoulders and turned her around.

"Chai?" Amita said as they walked towards the staircase.

"Yes?"

"Yeh two ah funny."

Charlie felt his slight annoyance with Don dissipate. He glanced at her fondly. "Yeah, we're hilarious," he said.

* * *

Once the two of them had disappeared up the stairs, Don started his own investigation. The first logical thing he could think of to do was call, so he pulled out his cell phone and dialed his dad's number. A ringer came on nearby and Don followed the sound to the master bedroom, where a cell phone was ringing on the nightstand. He rolled his eyes. His dad was forever forgetting to take his cell phone with him when he went places. 

The bed was slightly rumpled, but it looked like if he'd been "taken," as Charlie had frantically suggested earlier, he'd left without a struggle. Don clicked his phone off and picked up his dad's. He checked the call log. Several calls from his friend Art, a few from Stan, six from Millie within the space of two hours (dang, they were getting serious) … but nothing really unusual.

Don figured that since Charlie had probably checked everywhere else he'd scope out the basement, so he walked out the front door and up the driveway until he reached the entrance near the back corner of the house. The Craftsman had no proper basement, just a basement-like dirt crawl space that required entering through a storm door and climbing down cement steps in the dark. It was highly unlikely that their dad had gone down here, but it didn't hurt to look.

Don swung the doors open and clambered down the steps, pulling on the metal chain to click on the single light bulb, which only illuminated about ten feet around him. He padded forward, squinted into the darkness and as expected found nothing but spider webs, plumbing, sweet-smelling earth and a possum, a big fat momma with six little babies clinging to her back. She squeaked when she saw Don and darted off for the furthest corner she could find, and the agent realized he was completely alone.

He jogged back up the steps, shut the light off behind him and hopped out into the sunshine. After swinging the storm door shut and dusting off his slacks, he went to check the garage. Maybe Charlie had missed something. In fact, considering what Don had found in there a year and a half ago (before hiding it again), he was really hoping for that.

* * *

Upstairs, Charlie helped Amita back into bed. She was already tiring out from her hunt. 

"D'ah hepp?" she asked.

Charlie leaned over her a little as he tucked the covers around her. He couldn't stop the grin. It wasn't just that she was amusingly stoned out of her mind. Amita Ramanujan was lovely and brilliant and, if he was honest with himself, she made his heart go pitter-pat. Corny but true. He settled the ice packs comfortably.

"Of course you helped. You always help. … More than you know." He kissed her temple. "Now get some sleep, okay? I'll wake you up a little later for your meds, and maybe you can eat some more."

"Mmkay. Chai?"

"Yeah?"

"Shteh. Plizz."

Charlie regarded her for a moment. "Oh, okay," he said, playfully giving in. He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down to take off his shoes. "I'll stay with you until you fall asleep, how's that?"

Amita nodded. He clambered up and settled by her side, one arm wrapped around her middle. The full-size bed was little too narrow for two people and he realized with some excitement that he'd have to get a bigger mattress, you know, just in case this whole "Amita staying over" thing ever happened again.

Amita closed her eyes and fell asleep almost immediately. But for a long moment afterwards, Charlie lay still and watched her as the light in the room caught on her dark skin and long eyelashes and made little bright spots on her inky hair where it spread out on the pillow. If he put himself in probability's hands, the chances of her randomly making herself at home in his house were slim to none. But if he got up the guts to invite her, well … maybe he could tweak his odds.

* * *

Don wandered around the garage, squinting at the hanging boards full of mathematical expressions and little interconnected boxes. The whole mess looked like gobbledygook to him, but a few words in the corner of one board gave him pause: _Villanueva/Alcarán/Torres_. So Charlie had found a second to work on his case. All right! 

There were footsteps behind him and he turned to see Charlie come in.

"Hey. Amita okay?"

"Yeah, she just fell asleep again."

Don nodded. The brothers wandered out into the backyard by the koi pond. "Well, I didn't see Dad in the basement. And I don't think anybody carried him off. You think he just got sick of you knocking him around and made a break for it?"

The question was so perfectly dead-pan that Charlie took it seriously before he saw the crows-footed smile. Don was tired, probably a little punchy, and messing around. Well. Two could play at that game.

"I don't know," Charlie said. "It would be hard for him to escape. I mean, what with the triple lock you put on the door…"

"I know. Or the handcuffs on the bed," Don threw in. "You'd think we never unchain him or anything."

"Or feed him."

"Does the gruel count as food?"

"Eh, sometimes," Charlie said off-handedly. Seeing there was no sign of their pop in the backyard, they turned and ambled back into the garage.

"I mean seriously, if he went alone, how did he get out?" Charlie asked, shutting the door behind them. "He's not that fast, and he's not that quiet. You'd think I'd have noticed something."

"Chuck, you don't notice _anything_," Don teased as they wandered past the chalkboards. "Maybe … I dunno, maybe he just needed to get out of here for a second."

"Without leaving a note?" Charlie asked.

"Look, I know where you're going with this. So let me spell it out for you. No, it doesn't appear that he was kidnapped. And yes, that is my professional opinion."

Charlie nodded glumly. "I'm still worried."

"I know," Don said quietly. Privately, he was too. He scratched his ear as they walked back into the house. "Have you called the police? Reported a loose retiree hobbling around?"

"Ah, I went one better," Charlie replied, clapping Don on the shoulder. "I called the FBI."

* * *

Mary Price, a spritely woman in her eighties, had moved into the neighborhood two months ago. Her backyard met the Eppes's, and her own Craftsman house (a cheery light yellow number) faced the opposite street. She stood up from where she'd just been gardening along the fence that separated her property from theirs and peered over the wooden slats. The koi pond was bubbling serenely in front of her and there was a gentle breeze blowing through the sycamore trees, but none of the beauty could get her mind off of what she'd just heard. 

She stared at the closed garage door in shock, absently adjusted her broad-brimmed hat and brushed back some strands of white hair. Mary knew Alan Eppes and his two grown sons by sight, although she'd only seen any of them a few times since she'd moved here. In fact, the only conversation she'd ever had with Alan (over this very fence, in fact) was when she'd introduced herself.

But she hadn't seen Alan in a while. It worried her, and hearing the sons just now… She shook her head in fright. Apparently her worry was well-founded. Such a shame. She'd always regarded the Eppes brothers (from a distance at least) as pleasant, well-raised, respectful boys. But that horrible conversation! Well, she couldn't just stand by and let this happen right under her nose. She hurried inside.

* * *

Ten minutes later Charlie was hanging out in front of the house, arms crossed and casually scanning the street for signs of either of his family members. Don, at Charlie's request, had taken off in his SUV to cruise around the neighborhood and look for their dad, just in case he'd decided to take a long walk for some reason. So Charlie was standing there minding his own business when he heard the familiar whine of sirens in the distance. They got louder and finally shut off when a police cruiser got within sight of the house. The lights kept going though as the car parked and two uniformed officers – one middle-aged with a slight belly and the other young and rail thin – got out and walked over to him. The younger of the two, moving with the speed and impatience of a rookie, got to Charlie first. 

"Are you Don Eppes?" he asked, throwing his chest out to look more impressive.

"No, he's my brother," Charlie said, eyeing the kid with dislike. "I'm Charles Eppes. What's going on?"

The rookie eyed Charlie right back. "Charles Eppes, eh? Well, that's convenient. We're here about a report."

Charlie wrinkled his brow. "Report?"

"Yes sir, we got a call about several counts of elder abuse. Victim is one Alan Eppes, and the charges are against you and your brother."

It took a second for this ridiculous statement to sink in, but once it did, Charlie was flabbergasted. "What? That's ri – That's ridiculous. Who made that report?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, sir."

"Well whoever reported to you was making stuff up!" Charlie said angrily. "I mean, yes, my father lives with me, but I have never and _will_ never abuse him. That's an outrageous accusation!"

The rookie, in response, pulled out a notebook. "We have reports of locks, chains, handcuffs, _gruel_… Need I go on?"

Charlie stared, white-faced, as he tried to figure out where this nonsense had come from. And then it hit him. Obviously someone had heard him and Don clowning around in the backyard and had taken it seriously. His mind went into overdrive, trying to plot out the probability of who was listening in based on the time of day, the population statistics of the surrounding houses, and how loud they had been.

Then the rookie stepped squarely into his personal space. His older partner was right behind him, and Charlie realized that this was no time for math. He had to think fast.

He gave a little nervous laugh and put his hands up, palms open. "Um, officer, I can – I can explain. R-Really, I can."

* * *

This chapter's title is pronounced "Pah-PAH seh ess-kah-POH." It translates as "Dad got away." The Spanish reflexive verb "escaparse" means "to escape," a desire shared by hamsters, prisoners and (apparently) Alan Eppes. :D 


	9. Ocho

**A/N:** While the local landmark (and its location) mentioned in this chapter is real, its internal geography has been twisted for creative purposes.

**A/N 2**: I've posted the actual summary. It's been quite a while since the Janus list and I think that Australia has seen it by now (I hope). In any case I've got some Aussie folks who are reading this anyway, so I think it's safe. And that … is all I have to say about that. Onward!

* * *

**Chapter 8:** _Las cartas de despedida_

Don prepared to negotiate the turn onto Charlie's street and sighed. He was totally SOL. There was no sign of his father anywhere, it had been nearly an hour since this mess started (maybe even two, if Charlie hadn't noticed the disappearance for a while) and he was really starting to worry. It just wasn't like their dad to run off without saying anything. He drove back down the street towards the house, frowning at the two police officers talking to Charlie in the front yard – and let off a surprised shout as he saw one of the cops grab his little brother by the shirt, slam him against the cruiser and cuff him.

He parked haphazardly on the other side of the street, hopped out of his SUV and went running for the cops, flashing his badge.

"FBI!" he announced. "What the hell's going on here?"

"Don, thank God!" said Charlie with half his face pressed against the car. The rookie had a hand between his shoulder-blades. "They think we're abusing Dad!"

"Shut up," the rookie growled at him.

"You're Don Eppes?" said the more experienced cop, now looking a little nervous.

"That's Agent Eppes to you," Don snapped. "You want to tell me why my _brother_ is decorating your rig? Curb your dog. Now."

"Werther, knock it off," the older cop said over his shoulder.

The rookie released his grip on Charlie, who staggered away from the car and glared at him. Half of his face was covered in grime. Don put his hands on his hips, the move casually exposing his piece, and looked stonily from one cop to the other.

"Well?"

The cops began to explain, but just as they reached the part about the charges, a black hatchback rolled up and parked right in front of them. Millie stepped out on the street-side, followed by Alan from the passenger's seat. He grabbed his crutches and hobbled over. Don and Charlie and the cops all stared.

There was a moment of silence and then … chaos.

"Listen, Agent, we really were responding to a serious report."

"Dad, where _were_ you?"

"You stay where I can _see_ you, mister!"

"This idiot's my lieutenant's nephew. He just graduated from the Academy –"

"Oh boy. Alan, are we in trouble?"

"Charlie, did you call the cops?"

"Yeah well, the Academy isn't the one who let him loose on my brother. What's the matter with you?"

"No, I didn't call them!"

"Hey, you fellas knock it off!"

"_You_ knock it off, you bonehead! And get these cuffs off me!"

"Look, I'm not as fast as I used to be. I couldn't catch him in time."

"Give me one good reason not to write you up."

"Charlie, why are you handcuffed?"

"Your son was presenting a threat."

"Werther, I swear to God …"

The dueling conversations were interrupted suddenly by a loud shrill noise. Everybody stopped talking. Mary Price, approaching from a few yards away, took her fingers out of her mouth and stopped near the confusion. That whistle had called kids to attention on schoolyards for thirty years – no reason for it to stop working now.

"I am _so_ sorry," she said. "I'm responsible for this."

"Mrs. Price?" said Alan. "You called the police?"

Mary nodded, red-faced. "I heard your sons talking in the yard, and I …"

"Oh no," said Don, groaning.

"What's this?" asked Alan.

"We were joking around … in _very_ poor taste," Charlie explained, "And I guess Mrs. Price was home and heard us, and made the call. Right?"

She nodded again, completely embarrassed.

"Ma'am, do you mean to tell me you're admitting to filing a false report?" the rookie asked.

"No," Don snapped at him. His patience with this moron had evaporated the minute the kid had thrown his brother against the patrol car. "She thought we were for real, and being a good citizen, she called you."

"Sir," Charlie addressed the older cop, "My brother and I were fed-up looking for our dad and got very sarcastic. We do that when we get tired."

The older cop looked to Alan for confirmation. Alan nodded.

"Officer, if you could maybe let Charles go?" Mary asked. "I mean obviously there's nothing untoward going on. Alan is fine. … Well," she amended, gesturing towards the elder Eppes's leg, "Not _fine_ fine, but well enough. I do apologize for the false alarm."

"It's all right, Mary," Alan said kindly. "Maybe you should go home now."

She nodded, so humiliated that it looked like she was in pain from it, and began to slink back to her house. Don glared after her. So did Charlie, but that was just because he had to turn his back to the cops so they could unlock the handcuffs. Once freed, he rubbed his wrists.

He and Don turned as one and glared at their dad. Alan looked annoyingly serene. Millie, on the other hand, was glancing from one brother to the other with wide eyes.

"I just took him grocery shopping," she explained. "I wanted to see him, and he said he was going stir-crazy! I – I didn't think it would do any harm, and he just wanted to get out for a little while. I mean, he didn't even walk too much, honest, I –"

"Millie," Charlie said sharply, cutting off her babbling. "Don't worry about it. It's okay. We're just glad he's back and all right. Our father is having knee surgery on Friday," Charlie explained to the cops. "He's _supposed_ to be taking it easy."

The older cop nodded. The rookie said, "Oh."

"I think we're all right, unless there's something else," Don said, by way of dismissal.

"No, there's nothing else," said the older cop. "We'll go have a chat with the woman who made that report, and we'll do a follow-up visit in a few weeks, but that's it. Have a nice day, everyone. Come on, Werther."

The cops took off, Charlie and the rookie sharing a nasty parting look. As the cruiser peeled away, the three Eppeses and Millie made their way towards the house in complete silence. As soon as the reached the porch and Don opened the door, he turned around.

"Charlie? Millie?" he asked in a deceptively calm tone of voice. "Why don't you two get the groceries, and I'll see Dad to his room?"

Charlie and Millie acquiesced and went to go get the groceries. Don walked along with his father in time with the squeak of the crutches.

"You know, I know where my room is, _Donald_, and I don't appreciate being treated like a puppy that ran away," Alan said finally, once they were alone.

"Believe me, nobody would confuse you with a puppy," Don retorted.

They were silent until they entered the master bedroom. Don waited until his father sat down heavily on the bed before pulling a chair over and sitting in it backwards.

"You scared the shit out of us," he said without preamble. "What the hell were you thinking, waltzing out of here without your cell phone or leaving a note?"

"I _did_ leave a note!" Alan protested.

"Yeah well, Charlie didn't find it."

"Charlie has no observational skills!" Alan said. "It's right…" He stared at the empty nightstand. " … Here. Oh, no." He started pawing through the drawers frantically. After a few moments of fruitless searching, he looked back at Don. "I swear I left a note."

Don crossed his arms. "Charlie thought you'd been kidnapped."

He waited a moment for that idea to sink in, and Alan groaned softly and rubbed his face.

"Yeah. He called me at work. He was freaking out. We looked all over the house, I drove around the neighborhood like an idiot, and thanks to Jessica Fletcher I got to watch my baby brother being arrested. What a fun-filled couple of hours," he finished, going full-force with the sarcasm.

Alan looked very contrite. "Don, I really didn't mean to cause so much trouble. I just had to get out of the house for a little while."

Don softened. "I know. Just please don't do it again, all right? Stay down and hang in there until Friday and let Charlie, or Millie, or Larry, or _somebody_ help you out for a couple of days."

Alan sighed. "It's not that, I –"

"I know you're scared about the surgery," Don said.

Alan looked at him in some surprise.

"You always fidget or get up and walk when you're nervous," Don continued. "But you really don't have to be. Charlie told me about the procedure. It doesn't sound that bad, and either he or I, or both of us, if you want, will be there with you and get you home."

Alan scoffed. "I don't expect you to be there, Don. I know you have a job to do."

"I can take a day off if I have to," Don reassured him quietly. "But you're right, I do have a job. Which means I can't keep getting called back to the house because of your – your shenanigans," he said.

"Shenanigans?" Alan said, smiling.

Don shrugged.

"Donnie," Alan said, putting one hand on his son's knee, "Look, I know you and Charlie are worried about me, but it really is okay if I get up every once in a while, or get out. It's not gonna kill anybody."

Don narrowed his eyes. He was generally a sucker for the kind face and gentle voice bit, but not this time. He knew what his dad was trying to pull, and it wasn't going to work. He licked his lips and pulled out the big guns.

"Oh, it's like that, is it? Okay, fine. How's this: if you don't stay in bed and rest, I'll tell everybody about the suitcase," he said flatly.

Alan stiffened and withdrew his hand. He tried to look blank, but it didn't quite work. "S-Suitcase? W-What suitcase?"

"You know," Don said calmly. "The one in the garage under those old boxes in the back? Powder blue, I believe? … Full of seeds?"

Don had always figured Charlie got his atrocious lying skills from Dad. Alan went chalk white, confirming this theory.

"It's – D-Donnie, it's not mine."

Don stared him down.

"It really isn't. I – I'm just holding it for a friend," Alan explained. "Hell, parceling it, really. There's not much left. Look, this guy, he needs it for medical reasons and Medicare doesn't exactly cover it. I just go on runs for him every once in a while. I don't touch the stuff myself!"

There was a brief pause as father and son sized each other up.

"You are unbelievable," Don said finally. "You realize I could bust you for this, right? That my job practically demands I do it?"

It was taking every bit of control he had to keep his face blank and not smile. Alan Eppes was a comfortably middle-class, mild-mannered guy who wore plaid shirts and spent his days gardening, book-clubbing and volunteering. The very _idea_ of his dad hoarding weed was ludicrous. But the stuff was definitely there (he'd seen it), and while he had no intention of making good on his threat, he had to be serious right now or he'd be left with no leverage. He glared at his father.

"You'd bust your old man over a suitcase full of pot that isn't even _his_?" Alan asked incredulously.

"You run off again and I just might," Don warned.

"Oh, that's low."

"Yeah, well if it keeps you in bed, it's worth it. We have a deal? You rest, and I keep my mouth shut?"

Don held out his hand. Alan sighed, then very grudgingly took it and shook. But he didn't let go. Don, momentarily trapped, raised an eyebrow.

"I want a deal too," Alan said craftily. "I'll lay down like a good boy, but after my surgery on Friday, you have to tell me why Charlie smelled so bad last week. It wasn't garlic, I know that."

Don sighed. Fair was fair, however. He nodded and they shook again. Besides, in the scheme of things, it wasn't that big of a secret.

* * *

Megan checked her watch and sighed. It was 2:30. Where the hell was Don? Presumably he was on his way over from Pasadena and he'd hit traffic, but he hadn't called. She chewed on her lip and threw a lazy look to the right just in time to see Liz coming towards her, red-faced and upset. Megan stared down at the floor. 

She'd gone in to see Andi first, and David and Liz had gone in after her. It wasn't pretty – the agent's face and upper body were a mess of bandages. He'd lost a lot of blood, he was hooked up to an IV and there were wires and tubes going every which-way. He was in and out of consciousness. But his mother had informed them that he was actually getting a little better, and the doctors were hopeful that he would wake up for real within the next day or two.

Liz stopped next to her and leaned against the wall.

"Ya okay?" Megan asked.

Liz didn't answer her. She just stared at the opposite wall like a statue, and the tears began to run down her cheeks. She was doing everything she could to stay silent, but since Megan was looking at her, it didn't matter. Megan threw an arm over Liz's shoulders.

"What's wrong?"

Liz licked her lips and brushed the tears away. "I … Oh, man." She shook her head. "I can't just bury this. You have to promise not to tell Don."

Megan was confused. "Not to tell Don what?"

Liz was struggling to answer. "Andi and I … we're friends, yes. But um, we were … friends …"

"Yeah?"

"… With benefits."

Megan closed her eyes briefly. "How long has this been going on?"

"We were together while I was with the OCU," Liz explained, as another traitorous tear bloomed and she swept it away. "And when I was first seeing Don. I didn't know if anything was going to happen between us, so in-between me and Don, there was … me and Andi. I mean, when I knew things would actually go somewhere with Don, we knocked it off completely. But I … I still feel like I cheated on him."

Megan took a moment to process this. "Well look, I won't tell Don. But I think at some point, you should."

Liz nodded, and Megan moved her arm away. They both looked up to see Don heading towards them down the hall, Charlie in tow. Don looked unusually chipper and Charlie rather sullen. And he was filthy, for some reason.

"Hey, sorry we're late. Charlie held us up."

"Oh yeah, what happened?" Megan asked.

"He got arrested," Don quipped, earning him a smack on the arm from his younger brother. He didn't care. He'd been teasing Charlie non-stop on the way here and had no intention of letting up in front of the team. "So how's Andi?"

"Well, he doesn't look too pretty, but he'll make it," Megan said. She looked at Charlie with some concern. "And Charlie, you have some…" She motioned at the right side of her face.

"What?"

Don looked at him and laughed. "You still have some schmutz on you from the patrol car. Here," he said, and licked his thumb. "Let me get that."

Charlie ducked Don's hand and shoved him. "Knock it off! Megan, where's the men's room?"

Megan, struggling to hold in a laugh, pointed down the hall.

"Thank you," Charlie said loftily, and walked away with his back straight as an arrow.

The three agents watched him stalk off and bang through the restroom door.

"Man, what a crazy couple of hours," Don said as soon as he was out of sight. "I don't know which part was trippier – Charlie in handcuffs or Amita looking for our dad under the couch."

Liz smiled a little.

"Okay, now you _have_ to tell me what happened," Megan prodded.

"I will later, when I can tell it right," Don promised. "Look, I'm gonna see Andi. And then … well, I brought Charlie along because he has something to show us, and it's right nearby."

Megan watched him go and re-shouldered her purse. She and Liz shared a look. As soon as Don went into the room to join David, Megan turned to the other agent.

"Sooner rather than later, I'm thinking," she said. "Much easier to just get it out in the open."

Liz nodded.

* * *

The black SUV came to a stop and parked on Veteran Avenue about twenty minutes later. A slight wind was blowing and the sky was cloudless and bright. Don pulled on his shades and shut the driver's door. Charlie clambered out of the passenger's seat. David, Liz, and Megan emptied out the back. 

They all turned and looked across the street at the Los Angeles National Cemetery. The huge site ended on the corner of Sepulveda and Wilshire, with a beautiful gate and an enormous marble statue of a civil war soldier. Stretching north and west from the corner was a vast area of well-kept grass dotted with monuments and headstones, with distinct sections separated by paved roads. The most convenient gate for their party was right here on Strathmore Drive, right where it intersected Veteran before snaking off into the residential area around UCLA. And the section they needed was still a bit of a hike.

"Charlie, you're absolutely sure your friend was right?" Megan asked. She gripped her bag a little tightly, glad that she had these on her but a little nervous too. Still, if any time was the right time, it was now.

"Positive," Charlie said quietly.

They all checked for cars and walked across the quiet street in a pack. The gate was open and with Charlie in the lead, they took a walk all the way to the small Remembrances section, way off in the northeastern corner of the place. Nobody wandered far from each other as they walked past dozens of little ground-flush markers, some with little offerings of flowers and trinkets. Charlie led them to a spot near a small oak tree. The FBI agents stood in a semi-circle around the little plaque and read it.

COLBY GRANGER – PFC ARMY

B. 9 – 6 – 1978 D. 8 – 31 – 2007

_CANTA Y NO LLORES_

The whole group stared down in silent disbelief. David looked the most pained of any of them. The marker was definitely real and Charlie's friend had definitely been right. Don scratched his head. He hoped that none of his team would hypothesize about its appearance out loud, especially within potential earshot of people who were visiting dead soldiers that actually belonged here.

Megan knew she wouldn't get a better opportunity. She opened her bag.

"So, um, I have some letters."

Everyone turned to her and she began to dig around in her purse. "I uh, I found these in Colby's desk when we were cleaning it, but it was too soon to give them out. But I think that maybe now I can. I know it sounds lame, but I started carrying them around in case I got the chance."

The others stared at her, and she managed to meet their eyes in spite of the blush rising on her cheeks. She slowly handed an envelope to every person there, keeping one for herself. Don absently fingered the words "Agent Eppes" on his.

"I don't know what you guys want to do with these, but –"

There was a sudden ripping noise, magnified ten times by the silence of the cemetery, and everybody turned. Charlie had opened his envelope.

"Sorry," he said.

David smiled sadly. "It's okay, Charlie. Frankly, I'm kind of curious to see what's in mine."

"Me too," said Don. He tore his open and read it. Two sentences in, he looked up and noticed everyone was staring at him. "What?"

"Why don't you read it aloud?" Charlie asked.

"What if it's personal?" Don retorted.

"Don, these are _all_ personal," Megan pointed out. "How about this? I'll read mine aloud if you will."

Don looked unconvinced.

"I will too," said David. This was quickly seconded by Liz and Charlie.

Don sighed. "Okay."

"Great. You go first," Liz said.

"Why?"

"Because you're the head guy," David said, and elbowed him. "Come on."

"All right, all right," Don acquiesced. He opened the paper again. "_Don. I just wanted to say that you've been a great boss. It was an honor working with you, and I am sorry about what I did. You should know that it was not my choice to do it, but I can't physically sit down and apologize to you because if you're reading this letter, then things have turned out very badly for me_." Don swallowed and went on.

"_I count you as my friend and I thank you for all the chances you've given me, especially the ones you didn't need to. You had faith in me, and I swear to you it wasn't misplaced, no matter how bad this looks. Everything I did, I did for my country. … And I know that sounds like the biggest load of bullshit you ever heard in your life," _that got a smile from the others,_ "But it's the truth. Sincerely, Colby_."

Don knew he should say something – how conflicted he felt, how he couldn't reconcile the friendly, helpful guy who'd been such an important part of the team with the espionage – but he just shook his head in dismay. Everything had gone so terribly wrong. He folded the letter up and stuffed it back in its envelope.

"I'll go next," said David, to fill the silence. He opened his. "_Dave_," he read, "_What can I say, man? I've been in combat, I've walked the mean streets, I graduated from Quantico (a jungle unto itself), and I can say with certainty that no one has ever had my back like you did._" He paused to let his heart rate come down and went on._ "I am proud to have been your partner, and very grateful that you were mine. But if you're reading this, that means I'm not anymore, which means everything I was involved in went to hell and took me with it. Just know that I'm so, so sorry. Take care of yourself, move on, and please try to forgive me (or at least forget me) if I did you wrong because of this mess. Goodbye. Your friend, Colby_."

He sighed. "Yeah. My friend," he echoed. This was hard. The wounds still stung, and he was just as confused as Don. "Liz, why don't you go?"

"Um, okay." She unfolded hers, glancing at Megan, who was reading hers for the second time and looking flushed. "_Liz. They probably brought you in to replace me. Let's face it – you're a good agent, you're a nice lady and you make Don happy. Truly, I think Don is happier than he's ever been, and you're the reason, so welcome to the team. I'm sure you'll fit in fine. Critical information: Megan likes her morning brew with cream and sugar, and David takes his java straight up. Don will basically drink anything that's brown if you call it coffee_."

Everyone grinned except Don, who looked vaguely insulted.

"_PS: You're a fine-lookin' woman, and I regret I never had the guts to tell you that in person, but I was kind of afraid that you'd tell Don and he'd kick my ass, so I wrote it instead_."

Liz colored, and this time everybody smiled.

"Well, he was right about my kicking his ass," Don commented, and winked at Liz.

"Man, that's straight-up Colby right there," David said.

"Oh God, and how," Megan agreed. "Okay, I'll go next." She opened her letter and took a breath. "All right, here we go. _Dear Megan: I just want to say three things, and then you can go ahead and burn this, since if you didn't hate me before you most definitely hate me now, and I don't blame you. _

_1: I'm sorry for everything. You trusted me, and I was forced to betray that trust. I didn't want to, believe me. _

_2: I like you. A lot. Like, __a lot__ a lot. I was just too embarrassed to ever tell you that. But since this is goodbye, I have nothing to lose, so there it is. _

_3: You and Dr. Fleinhardt are the strangest couple I've ever seen, but you seem to make it work and I've gotten over my jealousy (mostly), so I say go for it. You officially have my blessing. Larry is one lucky man. Yours, Colby_."

There was a brief uncomfortable silence.

"Whoa," said Don.

Megan sighed. "Yeah. I'd always suspected something like that. Poor thing."

"_A lot a lot_?" said David, smiling a little. "What the hell? He can't even write the 'L' word in a goodbye letter?"

Liz grinned too, and elbowed her partner. Then everyone looked at Charlie.

"Really?" he asked with a pained look at Megan. "Mine is possibly more embarrassing than yours."

"Well then you _have_ to read it!" she insisted. "Come on, let's hear it."

Charlie groaned, unfolding the paper. "Fine. All right, here goes. _Dear Whiz Kid_."

Don snorted and Charlie glared at him.

"If I may?"

Don waved him on, ignoring his icy tone.

"Thank you." Charlie cleared his throat. "_Dear Whiz Kid: Comb your hair. And just give Amita a ring already, you big chicken. Everybody is so tired of you two dancing around each other like teenagers. Tell your dad goodbye for me and thanks for his hospitality. Also, I broke Larry's expander ball. Please apologize to him for me. And I kind of broke your darts, too. Sorry. I don't even know what happened – they just fell apart in my hand. I think I'm cursed. That must be it_."

By this point Charlie was flushed in humiliation and annoyance and the FBI agents were all laughing. David wiped one eye very fast. Don shook his head and wiped his eyes too.

"_Anyway, I'm giving you this amazing advice and making these 'startling admissions' because if you're reading this then I'm beyond your reach, and you can't exact your dastardly mathematical revenge. So ha. Take care of yourself, keep on consulting, and know that I really was paying attention when you lectured. _

_Seriously, I was. Ask me anything. _

_Best, Colby_."

Megan, getting the last bitter joke and taking it the right way, let off a laugh like a goose. Liz rummaged in her pockets for a tissue. And Charlie felt something tiny burst inside him at the realization that he could never ask Colby Granger anything again. So the mathematician shook his head and started laughing heartily with the rest of them.

It beat crying, after all.

* * *

This chapter's title is pronounced "Lahss KAR-tass theh thess-peh-THEE-thah." It means: "The Goodbye Letters." 

**Confession:** I wanna have Charlie's nerdlet. There, I said it. Oh and by the way, I thought it was hilarious that Charlie was cleaning the house in the last new episode. But in this universe, he hasn't cleaned out the garage. ;D


	10. Nueve

**Question:** Okay, who else thought it was totally hilarious that in "real life" (on TV) David Sinclair gave Colby Granger a _wooly bugger_ as a token of goodwill? _That'll_ set the British slashies a-flutter.

**A/N: **Yes, for those who are interested, the title of this story is taken from the curious phrase on Colby Granger's grave marker. And yes, you will find out what it means … eventually. So don't go running for your handy-dandy Spanish-English dictionary or Babelfish. All will become clear. :D

* * *

**Chapter 9**: _No seas una __**esa**__, mija_

"And the rookie …" Don shook his head in disgust as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "I swear to God, this kid was rubbing his two brain cells together and praying for a spark." David snorted. "How he managed to graduate from the Academy I don't know, but I need to make a phone call over there or something."

It was Friday, a little after one. Don had just gotten in to the office but he had been up for a long time already, so a perk was in order. He turned to his audience. Liz, Megan and David were all ears.

Megan swallowed her jelly bean and popped in another one. "Was he the one that arrested Charlie?"

"Yes," Don sighed, "Because my math genius brother, and I stress the word _genius_, said something so _dumb_ that…" He bit his lip on that little diatribe and tried again. "Okay, I'm rolling up the street, right?"

The team nodded.

"So I'm driving along, la-dee-dah, and I look to my left, and there's Charlie and the rookie talking, and then all of a sudden the kid smashes him against the car and cuffs him. I think I parked on the sidewalk or something. So I run over there, and just as me and the cops are going at it, Dad shows up with Millie, like he didn't just wander off and scare us both to death." Don took a sip. "Anyway, the cops went to talk our neighbor and that was the end of it."

There were appreciative nods.

"When Charlie shows up, can we ream him?" David asked seriously.

Megan smirked at the question. "What did he say to the rookie, anyway?"

"No, that's my department," Don answered David, "And I have no idea," he said to Megan. "He wouldn't tell me."

"Probably because you were teasing him until he turned purple," Liz commented.

"Probably," Don agreed with a grin. He was praying for an easy day today. The morning had been … involved.

* * *

– _Much earlier _–

Don was doing his newborn kitten impression. Nothing coherent had come out of his mouth yet and he could barely see. But somehow he'd managed to drive to Pasadena without killing himself or anybody else, so he took it as a sign that things would go well. He fumbled with his key and let himself into the house as quietly as he could but the door squeaked, attracting Charlie, who stumbled into the foyer half-asleep and slurping coffee. He pointed at the cup in question. Don nodded with a soft yawn and Charlie walked off towards the kitchen. He missed banging into the dining room table by an inch.

Don stretched a little, rolled his head around trying to work out a kink in his neck, and checked his watch. It was six in the morning. They were right on-time. Some heartless bastard had scheduled their father's surgical check-in for the ungodly hour of seven a.m. in the outpatient center at Glendale Adventist. The freeways (even at this hour) were unpredictable and that issue, combined with the complicated logistics of waking a sleeping, injured parent and getting him out of the house, meant they had to start moving now.

As Charlie staggered back over and Don accepted a cup of hot, fresh coffee – made with a French press instead of a drip machine – he wondered how this would go down. Thankfully their dad had taken the suitcase threat to heart and behaved himself since Wednesday. And Amita, now down to just Tylenol, was being very helpful. According to Charlie, she'd done most of the laundry on Thursday as payback for his hospitality and had offered to stick around and help Alan out. Charlie was happy to have her.

"See sill asleep?" Don mumbled.

"I dunno. Mm' I?" Charlie mumbled back.

Don just patted his brother on the shoulder. The poor kid had been running everything around here for a week. He was getting a little ragged around the edges.

"I'll check. Siddown."

"'Kay."

Charlie slowly sank down onto the sofa with his coffee and Don plodded off towards the master bedroom, slurping his own brew and waiting for the caffeine to work its magic. He opened the door, expecting to have to help his zombified dad get ready to go but instead …

"Hi Donnie," Alan said quietly.

The bedroom was dark except for the little light on the nightstand, but to Don's surprise his father was fully dressed – except for his right foot, which he couldn't reach with his knee in the brace. He was sitting on the bed with his right leg resting on a pillow and tying his left shoe.

"Hey Dad," Don replied, pleased that his tongue was finally working. "Here, let me help you out."

Alan nodded and handed him his other sock. Don set his coffee down on the nightstand and grabbed the other brown lace-up from the floor. In silence, he walked over to the foot of the bed, wiggled his father's other sock on, maneuvered his foot into the shoe and tied it.

"Thanks."

Don nodded. Alan maneuvered himself off the side of the bed and grabbed his crutches, which were leaning against the wall between the bed and the nightstand.

"Ready for this?" Don asked, nabbing his coffee and taking another sip.

"As I'll ever be," came the tired reply, followed by a suspicious look. "Are you up to driving? You look a little sleepy."

"I'm fine. Let's go. Charlie's in the living room."

Don followed his dad out into the front area of the house and Charlie stood up immediately, looking a little more awake.

"That was fast," Charlie commented.

"He was already up," Don explained, and shuffled over to the door. "Here Dad, take a jacket. Sun's not up yet. It's still pretty cool."

Alan balanced on his crutches and put on his blue windbreaker. Don drained the last of his coffee. Charlie took both cups into the kitchen, came back and soon they were out the door into the windy, dark morning.

The sun was just rising as the SUV pulled into the hospital parking lot, speckling the horizon with gold under the last traces of midnight blue. The three Eppeses got out and walked abreast into the carpeted reception area. The receptionist, a middle-aged blond woman in cheerfully patterned scrubs, looked up.

"Alan Eppes, for Dr. Kuramoto," Alan said.

The receptionist checked her chart. "LCL repair?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Fill these out and have a seat," she said, handing Charlie a clipboard heavy with triplicate and a cheap hospital pen. "We'll get you into a room in about 20 minutes, okay?"

Surprisingly, the twenty minutes were actually twenty minutes, and all too soon Charlie and Don were called in to see their father before the surgery. They walked in together and for no reason that Don could figure out, his heart started thumping. He didn't get it. It wasn't like _he_ was having the surgery. His heart wasn't listening to him; he swallowed and took a deep breath in an effort to calm down.

Alan was flat on his back in the bed with a white blanket bunched at his waist, IV'd and gowned up and wearing one of those stupid shower cap things. Charlie had explained that he'd opted for the general anesthesia rather than the twilight cocktail – _"What, I'm going to watch the blow-by-blow of my own surgery on the operating room TV? Are you out of your mind?"_ A young Armenian woman in blue scrubs was standing near the bed, fiddling with the drip.

Don and Charlie had their game faces on a split second before she turned to them. Don, out of habit, read her nametag, which said _Dr. Hazmic Bakalian_.

"Hi," the woman said, shaking their hands warmly. "I'm Hazmic. I'm your father's anesthesiologist. I've already started the sedation. Go ahead and wish him luck, but keep it brief, okay?"

They nodded and shuffled over to the bed so they could lean down on either side of him.

"Hey Dad," Charlie said, taking his father's hand. "You're going to be fine. Dr. Kuramoto's one of the best and we'll be right outside, okay?"

"Yeah, we'll see you in a bit and get you home," added Don, patting his shoulder.

Alan smiled sleepily at the two of them and nodded, squeezing Charlie's fingers a little. The anesthesiologist gently shooed them away.

So they headed back to the waiting room, sank into neighboring chairs and hunted for something to pass the time. Don watched with some amusement as Charlie located an ancient copy of Cosmo – it was the only thing nearby – and began to read it like it was a math text or something. Out of pity he tossed him a copy of GQ and delved into a battered New Yorker from three weeks ago before he lost interest and found a Sports Illustrated hiding at the bottom of a pile of gardening magazines.

They read and fidgeted and tried not to look at each other for over an hour. Finally an Asian guy came out into the waiting area, pulled off his mask and said, "Eppes?"

They tossed aside their materials immediately and went to him.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Kuramoto," he said. "I did the surgery on your father," he went on needlessly, shaking their hands.

"How did it go?" Charlie asked.

"Very well. I expect that with some bed rest and a little physical therapy, he'll make a complete recovery in less than two months."

"Wow, that's fast."

"I know. The tendon was in better shape than I expected and there were no complications. I was able to properly fix the tear. It should heal completely. Anyway, it all worked out great. I just wanted to let you both know."

"Thank you," said Don. "Can we see him?"

"In a few minutes. Someone will call you."

They held firm until the doctor was out of sight. Then they simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief, noticed the other had done the same thing, and smiled.

"So you were a little nervous too, huh?" Don asked.

"Just a bit," Charlie admitted. "At least this mess is halfway over with. Now all we have to do is figure out who's going to be home when. What's the date?"

Don checked his watch. "Uh, the 24th."

"Good. School doesn't start until September 10th – that gives me at least two weeks to be part of the shifts. I can split it with Amita, I think."

"Hey man, it's not like you have to do all this yourself," Don argued. "I'll be around."

Charlie looked very skeptical.

"What? I will!"

"Mm hm. We'll see," Charlie said, trying for doubtful but ending up at kidding.

Don shook his head and clucked his tongue. "No faith in me at all. What's this world coming to?"

"Eppes?"

They turned. Hazmic was smiling at them. "Hi. We just moved him to recovery. He should wake up in a few minutes." She motioned them to follow her and they did, all the way down the beige hallway and left at the end. "We'll probably keep him here for a couple of hours to make sure everything's okay and then we'll release him," she said, walking backwards. "Oh and here's the scrip for his pain meds," she finished, digging a pad out of her pocket and ripping off the top sheet. "Who wants to fill it?"

"I got it," Don said, taking it from her. "Charlie, if Dad wakes up while I'm gone, tell him I'll be right there."

After some brief instructions from the anesthesiologist, Don trotted off for the pharmacy and Charlie followed her into the recovery room. Alan was out, snoring softly. Charlie sat down next to him and looked around for the Kohl's bag that held his father's clothes, before finally locating it on a chair in the corner.

All was still for a while, but then there was rustling from the bed and snuffling noises. Charlie stood up and leaned down. His father was blinking, and then he smiled.

"Ah Charlie, how are ya?" he croaked.

Charlie smiled back, a little amused at his dad's tone. His normally sharp parent wasn't quite firing on all cylinders. "I'm fine, Dad. Yourself?"

"I'm … God, I'm the loopiest shmuck ya ever saw. I'm flyin' so high …"

Charlie laughed. "Listen Dad, the doctor said your surgery went really well. He fixed everything. You'll need to be off your feet for a little while, but you'll make a full recovery."

"It was okay?"

"It was perfect," Charlie assured him.

Alan nodded, sleepy and satisfied. "Good. Where's Donnie?"

"Filling your prescription. He'll be back soon."

"Okay. Charlie?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"I've been up since five in the morning. I'm tired."

Charlie patted his father's arm. "Then close your eyes and rest. I'll wake you up when Don comes back, okay?"

"Mmkay." His eyes slid shut.

* * *

At 11:30 the black SUV rolled into the driveway of the Craftsman house and the front door opened. Amita walked out onto the porch, still slightly puffy around her jaw but dressed, alert and cheerful. She looked a lot more like herself.

"Hey," Don greeted her warmly as he stepped out of the SUV. "You're looking better!"

"I feel better," she said. "And I'm _so_ glad to be off the Vicodin. I can actually think again. Where's Alan?"

"Stretched out in the back," Charlie said, hopping out the passenger's side and joining the conversation. "I think he fell asleep."

Amita nodded. "Okay, well I turned down the bed and put out some extra pillows for him. Oh, and there's water on for tea. Can I take anything?"

"Yeah, sure," Don said. "Here." He tossed her the pharmacy bag. "I think he's going to need one of those pills in an hour or so. Check the label, would you?"

"Sure," she said as she caught it, and walked back into the house.

They both opened the back doors to help their father out of the car. Charlie had assisted Alan with getting dressed at the outpatient center, so naturally his flannel shirt was one button out of alignment and his pants were twisted a little to the left. Don shook his head at this but decided to comment on something else as he helped their family's latest patient into a sitting position. It wasn't easy, as the senior Eppes really had fallen asleep during the ride home and was only starting to wake up.

"So Charlie, not to sound like this one," he said with a nod towards their half-conscious dad, "But Amita sure looks good in that doorway."

Charlie flushed and sighed. He'd expected this. "Yes, well, not to give _either_ of you any ideas, but I ordered a new bed from Thomasville. I um, I think I need a bigger one. Whether it's overly optimistic or … well …"

Don grinned like a fool. "Oh, this is fantastic. Thank you God, the pressure's off _me_!" he crowed.

"Oh shut up!"

"Wha' happa?" Alan asked sleepily, cutting them off.

"Nothing, Dad. Come on, scoot towards me," Charlie instructed. "There you go. Don, where are his crutches?"

"Trunk," Don grunted, pushing slowly from the back. He didn't want to jar his father's knee.

It was a team effort to get their dad into the house and off to bed, but with Amita's help they managed it with a minimum of fuss. Soon afterward the brothers found themselves in the garage, Don nibbling on a toasted bagel and Charlie eating a bowl of microwave oatmeal, lightly drizzled with honey, dotted with raisins and swamped with milk.

"So I've been working my analysis, trying to figure out the connections between your victims to see if I can posit a probable killer," Charlie said, gesturing at the board in front of them, which was covered in graphs, equations, and other stuff that Don could make no sense of.

"And?"

Charlie sighed and stirred his oatmeal. "And it's not going well."

"Look Charlie, it's been a rough week. You haven't exactly had all your brainpower to devote to this."

"I know, but I still feel bad. I want to help you catch this guy."

"And I'm sure you will," Don acknowledged and turned to another board. Half of it was covered in math, and the other half was covered in stick figures. He frowned. "What are these?" he asked.

Charlie came over and stood by him, looking slightly embarrassed. "Oh, I was just doodling," he said. "I was mad and tired. Dr. Marsden – she's in the Psychology Department – she told me once that doodling is a great, harmless way to express your frustrations and relieve stress."

"That … would explain why … Dad?"

Charlie nodded.

"Dad is hobbling off a cliff," Don commented. "And is that Millie?"

"Mid-fall? Yeah."

Don snickered. Charlie blew on a spoonful of oatmeal and ate it while Don examined the other drawings.

"And we have … Megan on a unicycle …"

"Yeff."

"And David dancing with … Liz."

Charlie shrugged. Don peered at the last drawing and scratched his head. A stick figure with little spikes for hair was flying through board-space with its eyes scrunched shut and mouth open, trailing motion lines and a small cloud. Below and behind it was a crudely drawn … something.

"And this is …?"

"Mm," Charlie said, with his mouth full. "Dash yew bein' shot out of a cannon."

Don glared at the picture. Then he turned to Charlie, who looked far too amused for his taste. "I'm about to hit a wall," he pointed out sternly.

Charlie looked at the board. Sure enough, the shrieking stick-Don was heading directly for a stray vertical line.

"Oh." He rubbed out the line with his fist. "Eh ya go."

Then he grabbed a bit of chalk, swallowed his oatmeal and quickly calculated something in his head. After a few moments he traced an imaginary arc to where the figure would come down to the level of the cannon, swiped a little "x" on the board, and drew a long skinny rectangle around it. Satisfied, he put down his chalk and spooned in another steaming lump of oats.

Don looked at the rectangle in annoyed confusion, then back at Charlie. "What the hell is _that_?"

"A mattriff," said Charlie. He clapped his brother on the shoulder and wandered back into the house.

* * *

– _Now_ –

Don checked his watch and groaned at the dial. 1:30. Damn. He had at least three and a half hours before he could legitimately call it quits for today. So close, and yet so far. The sound of a female throat clearing got him to look up from his paperwork. Liz was standing in the doorway of his cubicle, looking noncommittal as usual, but studiously so. Something was up.

"Um Don, can I talk to you?" she said.

"Sure," he said casually, leaning back in his chair.

"In uh, in private."

He eyed her. "Okay." He stood up and they both walked together into an interrogation room. Megan followed them with her eyes, but didn't say anything and only shrugged when David mouthed, "What's going on?"

Liz meanwhile closed the door behind Don. He flicked the blinds closed and turned on the light, feeling the same nonsensical heart flutter he'd had this morning at the hospital. She leaned uncomfortably against the wall while he hitched his hip on the table.

"All right, so what's up? Talk to me."

Liz heaved a sigh. The stone face fell away and she bit her lip. "Look, I have to tell you something. But you have to promise you'll let me finish before you … do whatever. Is that okay?"

Don immediately knew the thumping in his chest was no longer irrational. "Liz, what the hell's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Oh, I'm about to be," Liz muttered. She sighed and looked him dead in the eye. "Don, I … I screwed up. Or um, 'around' I guess is the better term. I screwed around." And she stared miserably at the floor.

* * *

Megan and David looked up when Don came storming out of the interrogation room a few moments later, silent and pissed off. Liz, pained and taut, trailed him at a safe distance. He sat down at his desk with his jaw still tight and ticking, and in an effort to get his rage under control he decided to staple some forms together. He tried the stapler three times before realizing it was out of staples. So he violently ripped it open to fill it again, fumed to the point where he could no longer remember why he was holding the object, and threw it on the floor with a clatter.

That caught David's attention. He stood up. Megan, horrified, waved him down just in time and glanced over at Liz, who was a few shades paler than normal and unable to look anywhere but at her computer screen. Don had managed to bottle himself for the moment – he was now glaring at his own screen and typing a little harder than was necessary – and Megan shook her head. So much for psychology.

* * *

This chapter's title is pronounced "Noh SAY-ahs OO-nah EH-sah, MEE-ha." In reference to Liz's gaffe, I used old-school terminology. The phrase literally translates as "Don't be a _that_, my daughter," but in common parlance it means "Now don't you be one of _those_ girls, honey." I think you can all figure out who "those girls" are. Hint: they stand on corners. A lot.

In other news, I begged Charlie for a copy of his doodles. He sent them to me via e-mail and gave me permission to send them out to those who want them. (He's so kind.) So if you're bored/curious/etc. and want to see them then e-mail me (or better yet **review**) and I'll send them to you. :D


	11. Diez

Hi! Sorry about the delay, storywise and plotwise. The characters made me do it! (Don in particular wanted a vacation from chasing scum for a few chapters - next thing you know he'll be angling for a beach scene.) Okay, here we go.

* * *

**Chapter 10**: _Güero_

Don showed up at the office on Monday with sore arms and "AIE" – "Adjusted Interpersonal Expectations." It was a new acronym he'd learned from Bradford last week and he'd decided that it was actually pronounced "Ayeee!" In the interest of not coming off like a nutcase, he kept this to himself.

The sore arms were the result of doing his filial duty. With his father flat on his back for a couple of days, he, Charlie, and Amita had all stuck around Pasadena to help and he'd volunteered to do most of the heavy lifting around the house – heavy lifting that, on a few occasions, included his dad. And he and Amita both spent more time with Alan than Charlie did to give him a chance to work the case. Relieved of his nursing duties for a little bit, the mathematician had gone full throttle out in the garage, clacking away at the boards with fervor all weekend.

As for the squirmy feeling in his gut and his AIE, well, that was all Liz's fault. Don had spent the last crawling hours of the workday on Friday carefully avoiding her. She'd said some pretty devastating things in the interview room. But rather than explode and yell at her, as he knew he would have done at some point in the past – before Krystal Hoyle and Bureau-mandated therapy – he said nothing at all. He needed time to get his thoughts in order.

Unfortunately, by the time he was ready to talk to her like a reasonable human being it was past five o'clock and he turned to see her beating it out of the office like her pants were on fire, her twice re-done bun sprouting straight little tendrils and her purse hanging sloppily from one shoulder as she walked off with the entire take of audio tapes from Andi, which the team had barely made a dent in.

"_Liz, we can divide that work …"_ David began.

"_I got this!"_ she barked, and she was gone.

So here they were on Monday, still not speaking to each other, the air thick with festering accusations and repressed anger. _Wonderful._ Don sighed and leaned back in his chair in the war room while Liz set up her presentation, her shoulders tense and her back determinedly to him. When she turned to the side to set up the tape player she looked tired and pale, but determined. Megan had mentioned over morning coffee that their team's newest agent had spent her whole weekend listening to the surveillance tapes from Gabriel Villanueva and taking notes.

Don chewed his lip and wondered what had suddenly motivated Liz to fill her two days off with the taped conversations of an FBI informant. He looked at her again. With her head bowed over the middle table as she arranged her research he was reminded of an illustration he'd seen once of a medieval monk, bent over a desk and carefully detailing a manuscript. Is that what this was? Penance?

His thoughts were interrupted by Megan and David, who ambled in and sat down. Liz looked up at them, although pointedly not at Don, with a smile.

"Hi," she said warmly. "I'm almost set up here. Have a seat."

There was some rustling around as Megan and David made themselves comfortable. Liz started off in business mode, facing them all with a direct, piercing gaze – _Great, _now_ she looks at me_, thought Don – and began.

"So I have some good news. I listened to all the tapes that we got from Villanueva and I pieced together a Persons of Interest list. Ready for some names?"

"Go for it," said Megan in a monotone without looking up. She had her rectangular reading glasses on, notepad in her lap, and pen at the ready.

"Okay. First off we have Alcarán – deceased. We have Torres – also deceased. But aside from them, Villanueva was in contact with four other people: we have the first mention of an Augusto Trevino, who's wanted in Mexico for murder, on July 13th, and Miguel Jimenez, petty thief." Liz clicked a button on the remote and brought up their names and pictures on the flat screen. "I was listening to the conversations, and both of them are definitely right-hand men of Pedro Mata. Close friends, former bodyguards. They're now in charge of small operations around L.A. About the beginning of August, these guys start talking about Mata's new bodyguard, who I'll get to in a minute. And Villanueva is on tape talking to Zulema and Tomás Cabrillo too, at the end of July."

Megan groaned. "About?"

Liz shook her head at the irony. "Using their place in Rolling Hills as a safe-house."

"Oh, little did he know …" Megan trailed off.

"Right. Then there's this. It's from the final cassette, where Villanueva gets Mata on tape. This was recorded, at least according to the CSI timeline, three days before his death."

She played the tape and the agents all listened. It sounded as though people were settling around a table – chairs were scraping on the floor, and glass bottles were hitting a wooden surface with soft thunks. People cleared throats and wood squeaked as they got comfortable. And a dog barked in the background. From far away, the voices of two little girls could be heard, and Megan looked up with big eyes.

"Is that …?" she asked.

Liz nodded, paused the tape and turned to Don and David, who were completely out of the loop. "This meeting was recorded at Tomás Cabrillo's house. In his dining room, in fact. Those little voices in the background are his daughters, Isabel and Ana María."

"Oh man," Don muttered. "You two were right there!"

Megan looked grim and Liz hit "play."

"_Pues, aquí estamos_," began a voice on the tape. The meeting took place entirely in Spanish and various voices interjected from time to time. Villanueva was playing his part brilliantly, getting every person in the room to speak up. Liz had to pause and explain several times what was going on. They were discussing business; a major smuggling operation was being planned for the end of the month.

"Something's about to go down," she informed everybody. "This was made a few weeks ago, but they're talking about the possibility of a 'shipment' going through this week."

She continued the tape and called out names as different players in Mata's organization asserted themselves, their voices now as familiar to her as those of her teammates – Alcarán, Mata, Torres, Trevino, Jimenez, Cabrillo, (who was only present because it was his house) …

"And here comes the wild card."

"_Y Güero, por qué está aquí?"_ asked Villanueva quietly, clearly talking to someone right next to him.

"_Le prefiere Mata_," Alcarán answered. "_Es una guarda fuerte._"

"_Me pone la carne de gallina. ¿No habla español, verdad?"_

Alcarán snorted in derision. "_Chale. Es un gringo. No entiende nada. ¿Es el hombre perfecto para esta negocio, que no?_"

Villanueva laughed slightly. "_Por sup –_"

Liz stopped the tape mid-word. "Okay, so Villanueva was talking to Alcarán," she said. "He noticed a guy in the room and Alcarán identified him as Mata's bodyguard. They call him '_Güero_,' which essentially means 'blondie,' and get this – the man never speaks on tape. He doesn't make a sound for the full fifteen minutes of the meeting. According to Alcarán he doesn't speak Spanish, which could explain why he doesn't talk. Anyway, that rounds out the players."

"Yeah, except three of them are dead," said Megan.

"True, but we know one who isn't," Liz pointed out. "_Güero_."

There was a pause.

"I'm sorry, I'm totally lost," said Don.

Liz favored him with a narrow-eyed smile. "Okay. Here's the thing. In Spanish, nicknames like '_Güero_' can be truthful or ironic. Like, I have a little cousin that everybody calls '_la Fea_,' which means 'ugly,' because she's so beautiful. And I had a friend growing up named '_Gordito_,' 'the little fat one,' who was tall and skinny as a flagpole. But the way Alcarán was talking about the guy who doesn't speak … making fun of him, calling him a '_gringo_' … people, I have a feeling we've found our anonymous white guy."

"What makes you so sure?" David asked.

"Well, the murders of Alcarán and Torres suggest that they were killed by somebody they trusted enough to accept a beer from, and Alcarán and Villanueva are obviously familiar with him. They've seen him before. They call him by a nickname. Trevino and Jimenez know him too. So he basically knows everybody in the room, and we haven't yet found him dead and pumped full of roofies. Anyway, that's what I've got. I figure it's a lead."

Heads nodded and pens scribbled.

"Good work," Don said at last, keeping his voice level and professional. "What do you want to do with this information?"

Liz sucked at her lip. "Well, I think we need to head back to Rolling Hills and have another chat with Tomás Cabrillo, at the very least."

A sudden knock on the glass wall startled everybody. Charlie was standing outside, his hair and clothes a mess, arms loaded down with rolls of paper, smiling. He waved. Don got up and let him in.

"Hey whaddaya say, Chuck? What are you doing here?"

"Hi, Don. Hi, everybody. Well, um, I tweaked some algorithms and did a little fancy network analysis. I think I have some answers for you," he said breathlessly.

"Well, right on. Liz just finished telling us what she found out from the tapes," Don said as Charlie walked in past him. The other members of the team greeted him and he nodded.

"Okay, well, I can't figure out who the killer is, so I hope you weren't expecting that."

"That's okay, Liz gave us an idea. There's a guy in Pedro Mata's inner circle on one of Villanueva's tapes. He could be it," Don explained.

"That's great," Charlie said. "Well, as for me, again, I can't tell you if your suspicions are right or not, but I do have some idea of our mystery man's motivations."

He spread out his analysis – equations, graphs, and tree-boxes – over Liz's notes (Liz smiled) and everybody crowded around the central table to get a look.

"All right well, what you're looking at is a network analysis," Charlie explained. "Here's Mata in the center, and here's his satellites – people we know about based on the evidence from Agent Moreno. I pretended I knew nothing about the killer, which wasn't very hard since we have basically no information…" He laughed a little, noticed no one was joining him, turned serious and cleared his throat. "Anyway, I looked at Mata's organization as though I were an opposing force, planning to cripple it."

"All right," said Don over his shoulder, "So what did you find out?"

"Well, based on the killer's most logical motives, okay, his attack scheme should look like this."

Charlie overlaid a transparency over his web of boxes, with little arrows pointing between possible targets, highlighted in red. All of the names were unfamiliar to the investigation – Ramírez, Soto, Aguilar, and Díaz.

"These are, according to the data and my probability weighting, the most important people in Mata's organization beneath Mata. With these four guys out of the way, it would be very easy to cripple Mata's activities."

"But none of these guys are dead," David pointed out. "Right?"

"Exactly," said Charlie. "It got me thinking. I don't believe this killer is looking to take down Mata's organization. Because here's what he's done so far."

He replaced the first transparency with another one, which looked a hell of a lot more familiar. Villanueva, Alcarán, and Torres were crossed out. Three other names – and sure enough they were Jimenez, Trevino, and Cabrillo – lit up on the overlay as possible targets.

"He's taken out relatively low-key players, but they're people who are linked directly and personally to Pedro Mata. Friends, guards, etcetera."

"Wait a minute. You think this guy's objective is just to take out Mata?" Liz asked.

Charlie nodded. "This progression is a classic death spiral. The math confirms it. I predict that the killer will go after one of these three guys, since Alcarán, Villanueva and Torres are out of the picture. Whatever he does, the ultimate target is Mata, because the spiral can only end by killing the man at the top of the ladder."

The agents looked at each other.

"Which means we need to find these scumbags before our killer does," Don said. "And if Liz is right, then he has a serious head start. All right, everybody. David, you and I will take Jimenez and Trevino." He nodded at the two women. "You two go back and re-interview Cabrillo. Let's move."

* * *

At three o'clock, David Sinclair burst into the FBI cafeteria and looked around frantically. Don glanced up from where he stood at the back, in front of the soda machine (he was calling this lunch) and waved. He snagged his can and moved towards his fellow agent, meeting him halfway. Sinclair didn't do "bursting in." Something was wrong. 

"Where's the fire, David?" Don asked.

"UCLA," the other agent said, taking the location query seriously. "There's been an attempt on Moreno's life."

"What? Oh, man. Well, that makes two now. Talk about timing. His mom said they were discharging him tomorrow. You call Megan?" He popped the top and took a drink as they walked.

"She's on her way up with Liz from Rolling Hills. Cabrillo wasn't around – talk about a waste of gas – and as soon as they got the call they gave up waiting for him and headed back."

"And Moreno is still alive?"

"Yeah, he's actually okay," David said, a little amazed. "The attacker didn't get to him. He was killed."

"By who?"

Don and David picked up the pace as they exited the commissary and headed for the parking garage.

"We don't know. Not the door guard, that's for sure. Somebody found him in a broom closet bleeding out. He was stabbed, LAPD thinks by the assailant who came after Moreno."

"Is the guard going to make it?" Don fished out his car keys.

"Don't know."

* * *

Megan looked over at Liz, who was staring out the window, as they finished their run up Figueroa and got ready to hang a left on Wilshire. She was trying to think of a way to keep Liz's mind off their destination – the other woman was obviously worried about this latest attack – and hit upon a distraction. It wasn't pleasant, but it would do. 

"So," she began, accompanied by the soft ding of her signal, "You told Don."

Liz sighed deeply. "Yep."

"And he said …?"

"Well first he said, 'Are you kidding me?' And then when I said 'No,' he just looked at me like … I don't know what it was like, but it was bad. So I got hotheaded. I said something stupid. And then he just kind of stomped out and didn't talk to me for the rest of the day."

"Uh huh." Megan made the left and got into the center lane. "And um, what exactly did you say?"

"Well, maybe I could have been more poetic about it or something," Liz said. "But basically I just told him the truth. I screwed up. I didn't know if we were serious, so I kept on going with Andi. And once I knew we were really heading for something, we knocked it off. But for a while there, I was seeing both of them."

"Mmkay. And … after you got hotheaded?"

Liz colored. "I said something like, 'Don't get all high-horse on me.'" She stared out the window again, the picture of misery. "And then I called him something mean."

Megan's eyes got big. "Oh my God. Dare I ask?"

Another big sigh. "I said, 'Oh, like you're Captain Commitment.'"

Megan, to Liz's surprise, started laughing. "Ooh, I like that. Can I steal that?"

Liz managed a little smile. "Yeah, sure. Heck, I'm just amazed he hasn't fired me."

"Oh, come on, he'd never fire you over calling him a name – especially that one. Don's … had his own troubles, okay? He knows you were right, and deep down inside I'm sure he appreciates your honesty. And as for the whole commitment issue, he _knows_ he doesn't have a leg to stand on."

"Really?" she asked in a small voice.

"Really. Look, you're a good agent. And Don, well, he just needs a little time. He'll come around, you'll see. And once he wants to talk, just let him."

* * *

At that moment, the object of their discussion was sitting on the 10 West, rapping his fingers on the steering wheel and staring ahead, mightily peeved. David steamed silently next to him as an accident a quarter mile before Robertson – and the resultant rubbernecking – screwed them over. It was stop-and-go and loud from the engines and horns. Don was trying to be gentle on the gas, with mixed results. He reached for the cupholder and grabbed his Coke lunch. 

"Well, maybe we'll get to UCLA by tomorrow. What do you think?"

"We could always hit the lights," David suggested. "I mean, we are on the way to a crime scene."

"It's not worth the risk, man," Don said. People ignored lights and sirens enough already in this city without the cops crying wolf, and they both knew it.

"Yeah, I know," David sighed and shifted around. "Just making conversation."

Don smiled a little, sipped his drink and looked over at the agent in the passenger's seat. David was bending over, trying to shield his phone's screen from the blinding sunlight with one hand and dialing with the other, looking calm as ever but tired. If the mess with losing Colby had been hard on anybody, it was him. It had always pleased Don to see a pair of guys so tight on and off the job, and he knew David had lost a lot more than a coworker. But he was no good at broaching weighty subjects and besides, the guy was on the phone.

"Hey, where you gals at?" he asked, pulling down his visor. "… We're stuck on the ten. There's an accident. Are you – Oh, you're taking city streets? … You're where? … Oh, you'll probably beat us there. Hold the scene, all right? Okay, bye."

He flipped the phone shut. "They're on Wilshire and La Cienega."

Don snorted as they inched forward. "They're smarter than us. Oh, oh, wait. It's clearing. See up ahead? … All right, that's more like it."

Within a minute they were moving at sixty again, like the jam had never even happened. The effect – cars suddenly disappearing off the way they were supposed to without any apparent cause – was almost surreal. The FBI-issue Suburban jolted forward like a horse out of the gate and they sailed all the way to UCLA with no further problems. Don signaled for the parking lot and turned in, bumping gently over the "Do Not Reverse – Severe Tire Damage" spikes and slipping the SUV into the last available police parking spot near the building.

Liz and Megan had beaten them there by a whisker. The women were just getting out when Don parked. He and David joined them, matching their quick pace, and the team walked through the sliding glass doors, passed Reception and headed for the elevators.

* * *

This chapter's title is pronounced "WEH-roh." 

And the Spanish: Most of it is self-explanatory (although anyone who wants more detailed translation is welcome to it) but two things deserve mention.

"_Me pone la carne de gallina_" (Meh POH-neh lah KAR-neh theh gah-YEE-nah) means "He gives me the creeps." "_Carne de gallina_" literally translates as "chicken skin," or goose bumps.

"_Chale_," (CHA-ley) Alcarán's chide to Villanueva, is East Los slang for "No way, man!" It's an abbreviation of "_Échale_," which literally translated means "Throw (it) out," or taken loosely with a dash of English influence, "Get outta here!"

Probably more than you needed to know. (Points at self) Geek, remember?

More soon!


	12. Once

**Chapter 11**: _Ya me voy / Ay te huacho_

Moreno's floor was pretty quiet when they arrived, despite the law enforcement presence. LAPD had taped the place off and CSI had shown up to take pictures and collect evidence. Megan and Liz went to talk to the crime scene investigators, David began to chat with a uniform, and Don walked over to the most in-charge-looking person around, a police detective with a stubbly chin who looked like he'd been up for about thirty-six hours. He flashed his badge.

"Hi. Eppes, FBI."

"You're here for Moreno?" the detective asked sleepily.

"Yep. Where is he?"

"Down the hall. We put a uniformed guard in his room."

"What about the guy who was guarding him here?"

The cop just shook his head. "They took him down to the ER to try and save him, but he didn't make it. Stabbed six times with a good-sized knife – there was nothing they could do. Good news is, his killer didn't make it either. C'mon."

He stepped under the yellow tape and Don followed him into the empty room that, up until a little while ago, had been occupied. Don stared down at the figure on the floor, head awash in a pool of blood. The man, a very familiar character that he'd just spent an hour looking at in the FBI database, was sprawled half on his side, with a sloppy bullet hole over his right ear. There was spatter everywhere. Don took care not to step in the puddles as he knelt down to verify what he was seeing.

"I don't believe this. That's Miguel Jimenez."

The detective raised an eyebrow. "You Feds lookin' for this guy?"

"Not anymore," Don muttered. "Run it down for me, would ya?"

"Single gunshot to the temple. Looks like there was a pretty serious struggle. Guy came within in an inch of Moreno's bed. If I didn't know any better I'd say the guard did it, but his gun wasn't discharged and it looks like Jimenez took care of him pretty good before coming in here."

Don nodded just as David came in.

"Hey. So look who we got," Don said, and pointed at the dead guy.

David stepped over and took a look. He stopped cold. "Aw, you have got to be kidding me."

Don just shook his head and stepped back. "What's the old saying? And then there were none? Let's talk to Moreno. Detective?"

The man turned in expectation and Don handed him a business card.

"If CSI picks up any epithelials from this man, we need to know."

"Why?"

"On-going investigation," Don replied, pocketing his wallet again. "Got some crazy jackass running around with a grudge against a very dangerous smuggler. Jimenez was on his hit list."

"Looks like Moreno was on a hit list too," the cop commented.

"Yeah well, we need to compare any DNA you find with what we've already got, okay?"

"Sure. We'll put a rush on it."

"Great. And Moreno is …?"

"Down the hall, third door on the right."

"Thanks."

"This is crazy," David said as they stepped under the yellow tape and walked down the hall to Moreno's new room. "We're too far behind this guy to stop him."

"Yeah, but you have to admit, he's … helpful," Don mumbled, rubbing his neck.

"What?"

"Well, I mean, he's killing scum who take out law enforcement – or try, in this case. He's kind of doing us a favor."

"Yeah, I guess. But we still gotta catch him," David pointed out.

"Yeah," Don replied, clearly elsewhere.

They had reached the room, and Don was not looking forward to this interview. Knowing what Andi and Liz had been up to did nothing for his concentration. It took some serious willpower to steel his face and open the door.

They slipped in and flashed their badges at the uniformed guard, who nodded at them. Liz and Megan were standing around Andi's bed. His mother Laura stood at the window. She was slender and tan like her son and her long black hair, which hung down her back in a single braid, was going a little gray. Her shoulders were tight with distress and she nodded at Don and David. They left her alone for the moment and went to the bedside.

"Hey, how are you?" Don asked, putting a hand on Andi's shoulder. He noticed Liz flinch slightly out of the corner of his eye. "It's good to see you awake," he added.

"Believe me," the other agent rasped, "I woke up fast when that gun went off. I'm glad you guys are here."

The team mumbled its support, and Don took a second to look at him. Now that the pleasantries were over, a sea of thoughts and feelings stirred up in his head like someone had switched on a blender. Here was Liz's man-on-the-side. Liz had sworn that he didn't know things were serious between her and Don until she told him, and he'd immediately agreed to break it off; he hadn't intentionally done any harm. The way Andi met his eyes guilelessly seemed to prove that. And in any case, say he was just putting on a great act right here and he'd really been complicit, well, Don wasn't a vengeful kind of guy but hypothetically, if he _were_, it seemed there had already been more than enough cosmic justice for Andrés Moreno.

It was hard to believe that he was set for discharge tomorrow. A full week after the incident the agent was still a mess, although the doctors had declared him out of danger (relatively speaking). The nicks and cuts on his face from the shrapnel were stitched and taped; he wasn't getting out of this one without some scars. A slim tube of oxygen ran under his nose, and his hands and arms were swathed in linen. The injuries to his chest and neck, which had caused the most concern when he'd arrived in the ER, were much improved but still delicate. Mrs. Moreno, who was sidling up on the other side of her son, had told Don yesterday that he was on antibiotics, blood-thinners, pain-killers, and all kinds of other crap. He had a lot of healing left to do and enough nonsense to deal with, which meant that he didn't need Don laying any kind of accusations on him. So Don licked his lips, bit his tongue, and took out his notepad.

"All right Andi, what do you remember?" he asked.

Throughout the entire interview, he didn't dare look at Liz. Andi rasped out the story. He paused frequently to take sips of water that his mother silently offered from a glass.

"Well, I was sleeping. There was some kind of little scuffle outside the door and I woke up halfway, but then nothing happened, so I tuned out again. And then the door opened, and I figured it was my mother and I kept my eyes closed but there was a smell – tobacco or sweat maybe – and I knew something was up, but … I was just too tired to open my eyes. I'm sorry." He looked very ashamed of himself.

"Hey, it's all right," Megan said kindly from the foot of the bed. "Being in the hospital is pretty exhausting. Nobody ever tells you that part, do they?"

Andi smiled and shook his head. "No. Anyway, somebody else came in, and I heard grunts, and then the gun went off. And man I opened my eyes _then_, let me tell you. But all I saw was the back of the guy's head as he ran away. I … I think it was a white guy. He was about your height."

The other agents all looked at each other.

"_Güero_," said Liz.

"_Ay, no me digas así, Cabuquita_," Andi teased.

Liz licked her lips and swallowed a laugh. "I meant … you guys know what I meant," she said, turning to the team, who nodded. "Andi, we have an idea of who may have taken out your assailant. He's on those tapes that came in from Villanueva. His codename, or whatever, is _Güero_."

Andi nodded. "Well, when you find him, thank him for me. He saved my life."

* * *

That evening, Don rolled up to the Craftsman and parked outside. The lights were on, which was a good sign. He was just making a pit stop to check up on everybody and then it was back to his apartment. For once, the stress of the office hadn't quite followed him home. 

"'Lo?" he called as he went in.

Charlie looked up in the dining room, where he was setting out two deli sandwiches. "Hey, Don. You know, it's amazing how you always seem to show up when the fridge is full."

Don took off his jacket. "Ha ha. I just wanted to swing by. Is there anything that needs doing?"

"We're fine," Amita said with a smile, stepping out of the kitchen with a pitcher full of lemonade. "I did the shopping, and Charlie fed the koi. Do you want a sandwich?"

Don's stomach was growling fiercely but his brother's words had poked him right in the ego. He waved her off. "Nah, that's okay. How's Dad?"

"He's good," she said, pouring two glasses and putting the pitcher on the table. "Millie's hanging out with him in his bedroom. I think they're watching a movie."

"Great. Well, I'll just show my face in there for a second and take off."

Amita looked at him sadly. "Okay." She bit her lip against her opinion for a moment, but she could only stifle it for so long. Just as Don walked away, she stopped him. "Are you sure you don't want something to eat? You look hungry."

Don eyed her, then Charlie, who just threw his hands up like "She does what she wants, man."

"Now _that_ is Alan Eppes rubbing off on you," he said with a smile.

"I can't help it!" Amita said. "Seriously, I feel like I should make you something. Come on. Let me? Please?"

Don laughed as he walked away. "Hey, knock yourself out. What are you guys having, turkey?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, I'll be back in a minute. Oh, and no mayo!"

Amita smiled and turned to Charlie, who had walked over very close. He put his hands on his hips and mock-glared at her. "You see what you've done? You're too good a hostess. Now he'll never leave."

"And that would be a problem because?" she challenged playfully, throwing her arms over his firm shoulders and lacing her fingers behind his neck.

Charlie caught a whiff of her perfume – a mixture of mint bath soap and simple human warmth – and forgot what they were arguing about. He leaned in and kissed her. She kissed him back, and they went at it for a good ten passionate seconds before a shout of surprise and a slamming door broke them apart. They turned and stared, arms still around each other, as Don come back.

He was white in the face and looked a little unsteady. "Excuse me," he said, pushing past them into the kitchen. "I need a beer."

Charlie and Amita met each other's eyes in confusion; they reluctantly untangled themselves and followed Don, entering just in time to catch him popping open a Red Stripe by the sink.

"Don, what happened?" Charlie asked.

Don took a big swallow, and then a deep breath. "Dad and Millie…" He paused for a moment and considered his words carefully. "Dad and Millie were not watching a movie. Let's put it that way."

There was a moment of silence while Amita closed her eyes (and Charlie's got huge) as they realized what Don was trying to tell them. Quick as a shot, Charlie reached across his brother, snagged the open bottle and took a huge gulp.

"Hey!" Don chided, and snatched at it. Charlie danced out of reach, still chugging. "That one's _mine_! Get your own! C'mere!" he commanded, this time swiping at Charlie's shirt collar rather than the beer. He missed and the youngest Eppes escaped through the swinging door.

Don turned back to Amita, who was leaning against the island and laughing, and crossed his arms.

"What?"

"Nothing," she replied, calming down. "It's just nice to see that some things never change. Oh, and here."

She opened the well-stocked fridge and handed him another beer.

He had enough grace to look embarrassed. "Thanks," he said sheepishly.

"Mm hm," she replied with a sly look. "Now you take your 'al-kee-hall' and nurse it quietly like a good boy. I'll make you some dinner," she said, pulling out sandwich fixings.

Don raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, yeah, you just keep pretending like you run this place," he jibed with a twinkle in his eye, opening his new beer and taking a swig.

"Who says I'm pretending?" Amita shot back with a wicked grin.

She set her supplies on the counter near the cutting board and pulled off the twisty on the bread bag. Don, just to be obnoxious, leaned against the sink to supervise.

"Oh, that good rye bread from Trader Joe's. Awesome. … Mmm, not too much lettuce. … Uh uh, no pickles. … Say uh, how 'bout, how 'bout you put extra turkey on my sandwich?"

By this point she was pursing her lips and glaring at him. Delighted at her reaction, he waggled his eyebrows at her. Amita was always fun to tease because she could dish it out as well as she took it. Case in point:

"How about I give Alan your sandwich, Donnus Interruptus?" she asked sweetly.

Don took a moment to process that before he nodded sagely and sipped his beer. "You're progressing well, Grasshopper," he said at length. "Your boyfriend, he's hopeless. But you … there is hope for you."

Amita snorted and pushed him gently towards the door. "Go. Now. Extra turkey, right? And no mayo?"

"And no mayo," Don echoed gratefully as he headed out into the dining room. "Thank you," he added seriously.

Amita just nodded with a smile and pulled open the container of sliced meat.

* * *

The next day at 1:34 in the afternoon, the elevator dinged on the fifth level of UCLA Medical Center. Liz Warner stepped out holding a small vase full of red and yellow flowers and headed down the hall past the nurses station. She was grateful that she'd begged off lunch at the office and come down here by herself, because she needed to speak to Andi privately, and they were discharging him at four. 

She knocked, commanding the butterflies in her stomach to settle a little. They weren't listening to her.

"Come in," came a friendly woman's voice inside.

She opened the door and came face to face with the business end of a service weapon. Andi's guard had his gun on her. Completely unfazed by this, she flashed her badge.

"Hi. I was here yesterday. Remember?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, lowering it. "Procedure, I hope you understand."

Liz nodded primly, smiling when she saw the patient. "Hi, Andi." He waved. "Hi, Mrs. Moreno."

"Laura, please," said the woman with a slight accent, standing up from her bedside chair. "How are you, Elisa?" she said warmly.

Liz smiled. "I'm okay. I was actually hoping to talk to Andi for a second. Um, alone."

Laura gauged the younger woman for a moment before nodding in understanding. "Officer Richards, perhaps we can both wait outside? I … have heard my son talk about this woman. She would never hurt him."

Officer Richards looked skeptical, but the slightly pleading look on Laura's face changed his mind. "Okay. Couple of minutes, no more."

"That's fine," Liz answered, putting the flowers on the night table.

Laura nodded again, pleased that the officer was making this allowance. She gathered up her knitting from where she had left it on the chair, and just as she passed Liz she whispered in her ear, "_Buena suerte, mija_."

The door closed behind them and Liz and Andi were alone. Liz sat down at his side.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey yourself. What's up?"

"Well, I uh, I just wanted to tell you about the case. I assume your mom's kept you in the loop?"

"About Torres? Yeah."

"Good. Well, we found DNA under the fingernails of the guy who was trying to kill you. The guy who saved your life and the guy who murdered Torres and probably Alcarán – it's the same guy. So we're closing in on him … and Pedro Mata."

"Good."

The ensuing awkward silence was painful.

"So what's really up, _mamacita_?" Andi asked. "I know you didn't come here for the view from my window," he joked, gesturing at the solid wall to his right.

There was a long pause as Liz gathered herself, closing her eyes briefly. "No, baby," she said softly, taking his hand. "I came to say goodbye."

Andi heard clearly what she hadn't said. "My mom's taking me home to San Anto to recover. We're flying out tonight. I'll uh, I'll be staying at my aunt's house, if you want to call."

Liz swallowed. "Okay."

"And mom is probably going to want me to stay close to home, after all this crazy shit. Maybe I'll get myself some sweet job with the field office out there. I don't know if I'll be coming back to L.A."

Liz just nodded. The tear sliding down her cheek surprised her, but she ignored it. "Okay."

"Maybe … Maybe I'll look up Cici again," Andi said, in a searching tone.

"You should do that. I want you to do that."

Andi, for the first time in a long time when it came to Liz, was having difficulty reading her. He knew her very well so this disturbed him. Even though their lovemaking had started out as kind of a hobby, it had gotten serious and regular and stayed that way, even with Don Eppes in the picture. And then Eppes pulled his head out of his ass and poof, just like that, Liz was no longer available.

She had been the one to give him the bad news, of course. Andi had admitted freely, albeit with a mischievous smirk, that he felt rejected. And Liz had responded – with an incredulous rise of those dramatic eyebrows – that _he_ was the one who was always referring to their nocturnal get-togethers as "overtime."

It was in that little breathing space after the word, in that one sickening instant where time stopped, that Andi realized what he'd done. All of his joking around had cheapened their relationship, and Liz clearly had no idea of what he'd come to feel for her. He had to make this right; letting her off with no hard feelings seemed to be the way to go. So he gave in, swallowed his misery, and wished her good luck.

In the end, she'd been the one to find him at the bar and drive him home.

Andi sighed, dragged himself back to the here-and-now, and scratched at his face with his free hand. Liz gently slapped it away and took it. He met her eyes miserably, hoping maybe she'd change her mind and blurt out something different. Nothing happened. She wasn't saying anything.

"You think so?" he asked finally. "I mean, she's a beautiful woman, but she's not … she's not like you. We had something, Liz. Admit that."

Liz looked down and gathered herself. "Andi, we had fun, okay? We had _fun_. I'm not your lover anymore. But I will always be your friend," she said, her eyes shining. "¿_Me entiendes_? Anybody gives you any trouble, you call me."

Andi gave her a wobbly smile. "Hey, same goes for me. If Eppes does something stupid, I'll fly out there and bash his face in."

Liz snorted, amused by his chivalry. "He won't, but thanks."

"You think I should stay in Texas?" he said, savoring the warmth of her gentle grip through the bandages.

"… I think that you should do whatever makes you happy," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. "You have to promise me you'll be happy."

"_Por qué_?" he asked seriously, searching her face.

"_Porque lo mereces_," she said, and another tear escaped.

She let go of his hands and wrapped her arms around him, mindful of his injuries. They embraced, his face peeking over her shoulder and hers in his pillow, for a long time.

"You're a good man, Andi," she said as she finally pulled away.

"Ah, but am I good-_looking_?" he teased.

She grinned. "Pssh. _Hell_ yes. The scars'll just make you look rugged. You're set, baby. You rest now, okay?"

"Okay."

"And we'll get Mata. I'll call you in San Anto when we do."

Andi hadn't really heard that last part. His eyes were bright. It had just dawned on him, even though the pain-killers were kicking in and starting to make him fuzzy, that he might very well never see this woman again. Impulsively, he pulled her forward and kissed her on the cheek.

"_Vaya con Dios, mi amor_," he murmured.

The door opened then, and Mrs. Moreno and the officer stepped in. Liz stood, wiping her face, and approached Andi's mother.

"Well, I'm off," she said, trying to sound professional. "Goodbye, Mrs. Moreno," she said, embracing the other woman. "You both have a safe flight. And keep me posted on how he's doing. You have my number?"

Laura nodded.

"And you stay out of trouble," she added to Andi with a sly look.

He saluted awkwardly.

Liz smiled bravely and headed out of the room, striding towards the elevator with new purpose. She had to get back to work and hunt down Mata if she wanted to keep her promise.

* * *

This chapter's title, based on Liz and Andi's final scene, is a simple dialogue. _Ya me voy_ (Yah meh BOY) means "I'm out of here" and _Ay te huacho_ (AYE teh WAH-choh) means "See you around." 

Yes, Charlie and Amita have to make out. It's in their contract.

No, I will not explain what _Cabuquita_ means. That's Liz's job. She promises she'll do it, so don't worry.

As for the rest:

"_Buena suerte, mija_" means "Good luck, sweetheart."

"_Porque lo mereces_" means "Because you deserve it."

And "_Vaya con Dios, mi amor_" means "Farwell, my love."

As for Liz's comment about Don not doing something stupid, well, I wrote this (and the rest of the story) before Friday's episode "In Security," and this is AU anyway, so whatever. :P

More soon! Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	13. Doce

**Chapter 12**: _Desaparecido_

Wednesday was not a good day.

"How's the back?" Don asked quietly over the com-link, shooting a quick look at Megan for confirmation that she was ready. She nodded.

It was three in the afternoon, hazy and quiet. The smog was nearly obliterating the sunlight but still holding in the heat. After a lot of research on Tuesday and more this morning, the FBI team was stationed just behind SWAT outside a small one-story walk-up on Adams Hill. The white-gray exterior paint hadn't seen a hose in years and the front yard was a disaster of weeds and garbage. Don took in little of this. He was just glad they'd made it to the peeling front door without being spotted and the house's occupant opening fire.

Two men stood in front of him, bulked-out with body armor and hefting a battering ram. They were poised to go on his signal. He and David had been the ones to find out the last known address of Augusto Trevino – the one guy left in the death chain before Pedro Mata – and now here they were, ready to bring him in. Not knowing exactly what they might find when they arrived, and considering the guy in question was already wanted for murder in another country, they'd gotten authorization to treat the situation as hostile and go in with maximum force.

"Back is a go," David responded.

"Side is good," Liz added. "All entrances covered."

"All right," Don radioed. "One, two, three. Execute, execute!"

The battering ram smashed down the door with a deafening bang, the noise repeating itself elsewhere in the house as the other teams made entry. Don ran in behind the SWAT guys, gun raised and identifying his agency in a holler with Megan backing him up.

There was no response to their shouting.

After a few moments of swinging his weapon around and quickly checking rooms, it became readily apparent that the place was empty. They met the other team in the middle of the house and everybody stared at each other for a couple of seconds, heaving for breath.

"Back's clear," David said pointlessly.

"So's the front," Don replied, scratching the back of his head. "Where the hell _is_ this guy? Is there a basement, or something?"

"Maybe there's a half attic," Liz piped up from behind David.

Don sighed. He hated it when raids didn't produce immediate results – like arrests, for example. All his adrenaline had nowhere to go, and it usually decided to regroup in his brain and give him a headache.

"All right, split up, people," he ordered. "The intel was good – Trevino has to be in here somewhere. And if he's playing hide-and-seek, we want to win. Let's go."

The SWAT officers dispersed, each member pairing with an agent, and they swept the house. Don took the kitchen. Megan took the dining room. Liz took the back area. But after a few moments there was a yell from the master bedroom, just off the central hallway.

"Oh, man. You guys gotta see this!" It was David.

Everybody converged on the small space, squeezing in through the doorway and taking off clumps of chipping paint. Don saw David kneeling next to the bed with his right hand on top of the comforter for support. Beyond him, he got his first look at the bedroom – pale blue walls, matchstick furniture (a desk piled high with electronic equipment and file folders, a dusty bureau to the far left), and pictures taped up all over the place.

Lots and lots of pictures.

Don tightened his jaw and kept looking around, trying to avoid the sight of his own face on the wall, or Megan's, or Liz's, or David's. The photos were pinned up neatly, clustered around what looked like itineraries, dating back to last week. Somebody had been watching him and his team, tracking their movements and snapping away. Surveillance, possibly in preparation for a killing – maybe even a synchronized hit on all of them. This kind of stuff, he could handle. He'd had people go after him before.

But it was the far wall that made the rocks drop into his gut. The intimacy of the third shot from the left – Charlie gesturing wildly while talking to a laughing student – demanded a deep breath and a knee-lock to keep from showing emotion. He turned back to the bed, where David was hauling himself to his feet in some disgust. Megan and Liz were converging with him, staring down.

"Damn," Megan muttered.

"Don?" David called.

He turned around. "Yeah?" he said firmly, hardly moving his lips.

David looked past Don at the wall and obviously had the same ideas as he did, but he was shelving that topic for later. "Don, we have a body."

The stone face vanished, replaced in an instant by puzzlement. "What?"

He stepped over to where the others were and looked down. The corpse had been stuffed under the bed about halfway, the comforter hanging down over it. Even from this angle, it was clear that the man wouldn't have gone undiscovered for very long – the edge of the blood pool had already licked the comforter. The corpse lay on its back, eyes wide open. Three bloody holes in its shirt made a crazy triangle from sternum to liver to spleen.

Don licked his lips and rubbed his forehead. "Augusto Trevino. … _Damn_ it," he spat. "Somebody call CSI."

* * *

The smoggy light was just as weird in Pasadena as it was over in Glendale, bringing out all the yellows and golds in the leaves wilting on the oak trees and the tans in Charlie's shirt. He was standing out on the porch waving at something just as Amita rolled up in her car to take the afternoon shift for Alan. It took her a moment of confusion to realize that Charlie wasn't waving at her, but at a Starving Students moving truck that was just pulling out of the driveway. She got out of her car and walked towards him just as the truck reached the end of the block. Closer to him, she saw his smile and returned it out of habit. 

"Charlie? What's going on? Is everything okay?"

"Oh, hi Amita. I uh…" He looked nervous, which got her antennae up. Charlie had gotten over this goofiness, she thought. "Yeah, everything's good. I just got finished with the movers. I ordered … um, something."

She grinned. "Something? Do I get to find out what this something is, or is it a secret?"

"No, it's … no. No! Uh, come on in," he stumbled, ushering her into the house and closing the door. "I um, I ordered a new bed for my room."

Amita put her purse down on the circular table. She could hear the quiet voices of the television news emanating from Alan's bedroom. "Oh yeah? Why?"

"Well, you know, I tested the old one and it was, um, it was a little unstable," Charlie explained with considerable authority, although she could tell from fifty yards he was pulling that out of his ass. "I thought a new bed … you know, in case you end up staying the night more often … and using my room … I just thought it was a good – a good investment."

Amita raised an eyebrow. "Okay, well now I have to see this new bed. I'm assuming it's the same size as the old one?"

"Um, no," Charlie said, and colored. "It's bigger. Big enough for two."

The pause after his statement was weighty. Amita crossed her arms and leaned back against the table.

"Charlie?" she asked, squeezing as much interrogation into that single word as she could.

"I thought, um…" He blew out a breath. "Oh, boy. I thought maybe the next time you spent the night in my room, you um, might like some company?"

Now instead of a blush, he was sporting that vaguely constipated expression. She fought down the urge to laugh. Amita knew exactly what Charlie was hoping she'd say, and she had every intention of saying it, but it was always so funny to watch him squirm. After letting her boyfriend dangle in silence for a moment, she decided to be merciful. She pushed away from the table, took his hand silently and together they walked upstairs to the bedroom.

Charlie pushed open the door and she saw a queen-sized mattress resting on a beautiful oak bedstead with a dark stain. The headboard and footboard both had slats like a Morris chair and the whole thing fit right in with the house – all straight planes and clean lines. A bagged set of blue sheets and a dark blue comforter were sprawled on top. Charlie's hand left hers and snaked around her waist instead.

"What do you think?" he murmured in her ear.

And she chased his doubts away. "I think," she growled back, "I'd better see you tonight … if not before." She kissed his cheek and received a relieved smile in return.

* * *

Back in the war room, the team was clustered around the central table, going over the evidence and arguing. 

"So somebody killed Augusto Trevino," Don began. "Well, that's the last link in the chain, according to Charlie's analysis. There's nothing standing between the killer and Mata now."

"Yeah," Liz agreed, flipping her cell phone shut. "That was CSI. They picked up epithelials from the body, and they're running a comparison."

"Ten bucks says it's the same guy that took out Jimenez in Moreno's room," David said.

"I'm with David," Megan said. "This killing was just as efficient. But it was also pretty in-your-face. No evidence that he tried to relax the guy with roofies, right?"

"None," Don said.

"Maybe he knows we're on to him, so he's not even bothering to hide anymore," Liz said.

"Maybe Trevino did something that pissed him off," David suggested.

"Well, if we go with the idea that this guy is, you know, is trying to protect law enforcement, then I'm thinking the surveillance photos might have done the trick," Don commented wryly, and rubbed his eyes.

"You mean he thinks he did us a personal favor by taking out Trevino?" Megan asked.

Don just looked at her.

"Look, maybe his aim is to protect people like us, but I don't care. He's –"

"You can't even admit that this might be a good thing?" Liz interrupted.

"We don't need protection, all right?" Megan argued. "We _are_ protection. And he's escalating." Off the dubious looks, she added, "People, this guy is cuckoo."

"Is that the psychological term?" David asked with a small grin.

Megan glared at him, then turned to Don. "He's killing on impulse now. All the physical evidence suggests that he just burst into the house, surprised this guy, and shot him point blank. And now he's gunning for Mata, which means that we have to find Mata and arrest him before this nutcase finds him and _kills_ him."

"Which is a problem," Don pointed out. "The OCU has been trying to find Mata for years. I mean, this guy's a needle in a haystack. He's proven it for a long time."

Liz sighed. David glanced at Megan. Don was right. They were nowhere with this. Megan sighed and scratched her head.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

Don flipped open his cell phone and hopped off the edge of the table. "Just one," he said, dialing as he walked out.

* * *

Charlie was walking into his office at CalSci, a cup of coffee in hand. 

"Good morning Millie," he said.

Millie was sitting at his desk, typing at his laptop, looking perfectly at home. She looked up, adjusting reading glasses that looked suspiciously like his father's, and smiled.

"Good morning Charlie."

He turned to his left. Don, every inch of his clothes neatly pressed and his hair parted in a way Charlie hadn't seen since his older brother sport since the fifth grade, was sitting at his desk at the FBI scribbling equations in a notebook. He looked up and smiled too.

"Good morning Don," Charlie said.

"Good morning Charlie," Don said pleasantly, and went back to work.

And he turned to his left again, where a trio of women – Megan, Amita, and Liz – all dressed in skin-tight black suits, sat lounging on the desk in Larry's office.

"Good morning Angels," Charlie said.

Megan, Amita, and Liz smiled radiantly.

"Good morning Charlie," they chorused.

And then Amita cocked her face to the side and studied him, looking rather concerned. "Charlie?" she purred.

She got up off the desk and stood a foot from him, so her pretty face nearly filled his vision … and spoke in Don's voice.

"Hey man, wake up."

Charlie made a startled sort of "Gyah!" noise as his eyes snapped open and for a second he was completely disoriented. He blinked and did his best to slow his breathing. Don was leaning in over him, rumpled and unshaven, in need of a shower, resting a hand on his shoulder. It was late afternoon, not morning. His brother shot him a tired grin.

"Hi. Sorry, but we need your help. I tried to get a hold of you but I think you turned your cell phone off or something."

Charlie tried to look innocent. He _had_ turned his cell phone off – right before he and Amita took the brand new mattress for a spin, to make sure they wouldn't be interrupted. And of course he'd forgotten to turn it on again afterwards; Amita had left for home to bring back a few essentials and, tuckered out from their recent "activity," he'd decided to nap on the couch.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he said, trying to keep his cool. "Must have done it by accident."

"Uh huh," said Don. He wasn't paying enough attention, which suited Charlie just fine. "Listen, the last link in the chain before Pedro Mata just got taken out. We need to focus our efforts on finding him. Anything you can do?"

It took Charlie a second to process the question. "Y-Yeah, I think so," he said finally, wiping sleep out of one eye and pushing up from the sofa. He checked his watch and cricked his neck. "Should I come down to the office?"

"Probably a good idea."

Yawning and stretching and nodding, Charlie wandered over to the coat rack for a light jacket. He nabbed it and was out the door ahead of his brother.

"Amita?" Don asked, locking the door behind them as they stepped out onto the porch.

"She's out," Charlie said evasively. _Of this world_, he added in his head.

* * *

Megan looked up from her paperwork. "Heads up," she said to the others. "Eppeses, ten o'clock." 

David and Liz looked up and smiled as Don and Charlie joined them.

"Hi guys," Charlie said.

"Hey," Liz replied warmly. "I take it Don filled you in. Got any ideas for us?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Charlie replied, walking over to one of the transparent boards in the room and starting to scribble out an equation. "Give me a second here." As he continued to write, he started talking. "I thought I might try an alteration on the pursuit curve. You guys remember that?"

"Vaguely," Megan said.

"Something about a mouse?" David suggested. "Cheese?"

Charlie smiled. "The cat chasing the mouse, with the dog chasing the cat. Well, in this case, Mata's the cat, our killer is the dog, and the 'mouse' is actually going to end up being a location. If we can figure out what Mata wants, I can plug in those variables and maybe kick out some kind of an answer for you, or at least give you some way to start. So what does Mata want?" Charlie finished, turning to the group.

"To … not get killed?" Don ventured.

Charlie nodded. "Safety," he said, writing on the board again. "Anything else?"

"Somewhere where he can continue to operate his business," Megan said.

"Okay, business interests," Charlie replied, still scribbling. "And …?"

"Some place he feels safe," Liz said. "With friends."

"Remote, maybe?" David offered.

Charlie nodded, writing furiously. "All good ideas. I'll plug them in. The good thing about this analysis is that his circle of friends started out small, and it's quickly dwindling, so he's running out of options. I should be able to give you some search parameters in a few minutes."

He kept writing, but Liz piped up. "Charlie, um, I'm just curious. I know in the beginning you were looking for commonalities among the victims, right?"

Charlie nodded, but didn't look away.

"Did you find anything?"

Her question brought him up short, and he paused for a while as he debated whether to respond. The sound of someone clearing a throat made him realize that he had debated too long, and now he _had_ to say something, so he turned to the group.

"Um, well, yes and no," he said. "I got some solutions, but my answer might as well have been an empty set. That was why I didn't mention it."

Liz was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, my first idea was to try and link the first two dead guys with an association tree, but that didn't work. Then I tried linking all the cases where their names appeared, to see if I could come up with a common name. Based on your idea, Liz, that uh, that this killer is white, I found dozens of names, but only found one that fit the criteria." Charlie swallowed. "Colby Granger."

The silence was uncomfortable. Don stared at the floor. Megan, David, and Liz had their eyes on Charlie. The mathematician pressed on.

"He was listed in the files assisting some of the agents with the background checks on witnesses in the cases of Villanueva, Alcaran, and Torres. Something about translating. I, um, I figured it didn't make any difference, because he's … you know."

"Yeah," Megan said quietly. Then she bit her lip, seized by an idea. She turned to a nearby laptop and started typing.

"What are you doing?" David asked.

"Just looking for something," she murmured. A beep from the speaker caught her attention and she looked at the screen in confusion. "What the … he's not coming up."

"What?" Don asked, walking over. "Who's not coming up?"

"Colby," Megan replied, dumbfounded. "I just figured I'd enter him, since we have nothing else. Did I spell his name wrong or something? C-O-L …" she started. After some slow and careful typing, she hit 'enter.' The computer answered with another 'error' chirp.

By this point, everyone had gathered around her and was staring at the screen.

"File Not Found," she read. "There's no listing." She leaned back in her chair. "What the hell is going on?"

"Hang on," Charlie said from behind her. "May I?"

"Sure." She got up and let Charlie have the computer.

"I'll run his facial asymmetry quotient to see if I can find a picture of him," Charlie explained, as he brought up the visual recognition program and began to type.

"You remember his measurements?" David asked, somewhat surprised.

"Of course," Charlie said absently. "And yours, and Don's, and Megan's, and Liz's too. I helped design that search program, remember?"

Don remembered. That program had helped them search through the picture databases for quite a few suspects. His younger brother typed away with satisfaction, positive that this would have to produce something. He smugly hit 'enter' and everybody stared at the screen, waiting for the math magic to work. After a long moment of waiting, it was becoming apparent that nothing was showing up in the database. Charlie's smile was gone.

"This makes no sense," he said at last. "The search string I put in was very specific. All the program had to do was filter through the channels to the proper measurement and gender categories."

"He should have come up?" Don said.

"In under thirty seconds," Charlie affirmed. "Something is very wrong here."

His tone of voice said more to FBI agents than the math-speak, and they looked at each other as he started typing again.

"What are you doing?" Megan asked.

"I'm using my clearance," Charlie explained, his fingers dancing over the keys. After a few moments of frantic typing, he froze, eyes quickly scanning the data. "Oh, no."

"What?" That was Don, from behind him.

Charlie sighed. "This is a list of actions taken at the administrative level on the database – additions, deletions, edits – all that stuff. It's got dates and actions, and … there it is."

"There _what_ is?" Don again. He was frustrated. "Charlie, come on."

Charlie pointed to the screen. "You see this time stamp? 31 J 2007, 22:48:35? On the last day of July, somebody got into this database and really messed around in here. Let me bring up the detailed record." He hit a few keys and brought up a series of gibberish numbers that nonetheless seemed to make sense to him. "See this string, right there on the fourth row? Those are Colby Granger's facial asymmetry measurements. Whoever accessed this system," he went on, getting angry, "used the facial asymmetry program to seek out images of Colby Granger and delete them, and at a fairly sophisticated level. The command was set to nab any kind of shot; profile, three-quarter, full-on, identifiable background … that's … well, that's a lot."

"You mean, like, any and all pictures of him are gone?" Megan said.

"Oh, worse than that," Charlie replied, swiveling to look at her. "All pictures with him _in them_ disappeared based on this command, which means that some valuable evidence just got lost, too. If he was wandering through a crime scene shot…" He snapped his fingers. "Gone."

Megan groaned. "Seriously?"

"Yes. And about three minutes later," Charlie continued, thumbing at the screen, "Once all the pictures are deleted, his personnel files disappear, and …" he paused to look and scrolled down with the mouse a little ways. "Yep, there go his fingerprints. It's all the same user."

"Someone just erased Colby?" David said, his gut tightening.

Charlie nodded. "It's like he was never with the FBI. Like he never existed."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"It's not bad enough that he got killed?" Liz murmured. "Somebody had to obliterate him, too?"

"Can you see who accessed the database?" Don asked over her mumbling.

Charlie shook his head. "They've protected themselves pretty well. This access code is saying the IRS did it, but that has to be a cover for a hack. I mean, why would an IRS agent delete Colby? Anyway, I can probably hack it to find who was behind this, or I could get Amita to hack it 'cause she's better at this stuff than I am, but if I don't go through the proper channels first and get permission, we'll be in some serious trouble."

Don blew out a breath. "Okay, well, who do you need permission from?"

"Bob should do the trick," Charlie said. "I can call him."

"All right, great. Do it."

Charlie nodded and pulled out his cell phone, standing up so Megan could have her computer back.

"Well, at least we can agree that Colby didn't erase himself," Liz commented. "The date's the night he …"

"Yeah," Charlie agreed. He glanced at the team. "Did um … did the military ever find out who killed him?"

"I don't think the military really investigated," Don answered. "He was, you know, he was up for execution anyway. They probably figured 'why bother.' They just left it that somebody shanked him during that riot – never figured out who did it."

"Did _we_ investigate?" Charlie asked.

"No cause," Megan replied softly. "Look, Charlie, you just call Mr. Thompkins and then keep going on Mata. See if you can give us any ideas of where to look. And if you need any data, let us know. We'll get it for you."

"Right."

Frustrated by the lack of results and clearly disturbed at the misguided use of a program he'd helped to design, he paced over to the far corner of the room and dialed.

"I'll get Amita and Larry in here to help too," he said as the phone began to ring. "And then I'll get back to the calculations."

"Sounds good," Don said.

"Okay guys, come on. Let Charlie get his command center going in here and we'll powwow in the break room," Megan announced, getting everyone's attention. "We need to start throwing some ideas around if we want to find Mata."

* * *

At seven pm, things had come to a head in the FBI office. Amita was sipping coffee. She was still trying without success (yet) to hack into the FBI database and figure out who had sneaked in, and how. Larry and Charlie were discussing the equations running across the transparent boards, pointing and gesturing wildly but seeming to come to some kind of mutually agreeable solution. Now they were hurrying for the door. 

Don watched the show through the plexiglass window. How had the Geek Squad managed to chase the feds out of their own war room?

"Don, you with us?" Megan asked.

"Yeah, I'm with you," he said, putting down his cup of coffee. "I think Charlie and Larry have figured something out. They're heading our way. So we narrowed down our list?"

"Yep," Liz said. "Four locations that we know about: the first one is …"

Charlie burst in, followed by Larry. "Hey," he said. "So we strapped up a little probability thinking to our equations and I think we have an answer for you. There's a 90 percent chance, well above the rest, that he's at 354 Luna Blanca Lane in Rolling Hills. Having been there with Don once, I'd say it fits all the major criteria – safety, seclusion, a way to run his business remotely, and of course there's the family connection, with the bonus being that he doesn't know that you know that."

"That's exactly what we just came up with," Liz replied. "The Cabrillos."

Megan was up in a second. "I'll drive," she announced, tossing her coffee cup in the trash. "God knows, I know the way by now." David grinned, and she looked mock-annoyed by this. "And I'm takin' you with me. It's not fair that all the rest of us have been dragged down there and not you, so come on."

Don managed a tired smile at this. "Thanks, Megan. You take David and go. Stay in touch. Let's see if Charlie's right."

"Hey, you know what they say – third time's a charm," she quipped. "Come on David, let's roll."

The agents took off, leaving Don, Liz, Charlie, and Larry in the room. For a moment the space was a windstorm of paper and coffee cups as they cleaned up after themselves. Don was just shooting a basket with his empty cup when a youngish aide opened the door and peeked in.

"Agent Eppes?" she asked, and he turned. "Agent Greene from OCU is outside. He wants to talk to you."

* * *

The roads were fairly clear – rush hour was trickling off – so for once Megan had a straight shot down the 110 with no traffic to contend with and she and David made record time to the edge of Rolling Hills. The sun was gone, and a quiet hush had settled over the darkened street. They pulled over about two houses down from their target and killed the lights, checking their weapons in the near-darkness of the car. 

"What happens if Mata's here?" David asked. "I mean, shouldn't we have back-up? SWAT, or something?"

"If Mata's here, we can't spook him. He's desperate and scared. His friends are getting killed all around him, his business can't be doing too well, and he has to be armed. And you know what that means."

David nodded. The arrival of a SWAT team would undoubtedly cause a firefight and they couldn't afford to put a family of four in the middle of that. Besides, they didn't even have the intel – they were down here on a glorified hunch and an equation. He checked the clip on his weapon and holstered it.

"I'm ready," he said. "We good?"

"Let's do it."

They got out of the car and crept toward the house, guns drawn. Lights were on in the front windows and they heard laughter and the clank of silverware as they made their way up the porch. A late dinner was apparently underway. Megan motioned for David to stay still and keep his gun hidden while she came up with a good excuse to get someone to answer the door. Bringing up her mental map of the place, she nudged him into a spot just out of sight of the curtained windows on either side, and he nodded. She rang the bell.

As soon as the chime sounded, the murmur of conversation stopped. A chair scraped and there were footsteps. Then the door opened just a little bit and Megan caught a stripe of Tomás Cabrillo – a frightened eye, a tight lip corner, freshly pressed shirt and pants.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Pizza!" Megan said cheerfully.

Now the stripe of Tomás looked confused, although he recognized her. "Um, we didn't order any pizza."

"Play along," Megan hissed, showing him her gun, and then returned to her normal cheerful voice. "Really? Like, there's no three-cheese pizza for Mr. … Thomas … Cabrillo?" She pretended to read off a paper, deliberately pronouncing his last name to rhyme with "armadillo" rather than "Theo."

Mr. Cabrillo played his part pretty well – or maybe he was just annoyed at Megan's pronunciation. He gave an exasperated sigh and turned back to the party inside. "Hold on, let me handle this." He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. "What's going on?" he whispered, dropping the act immediately. "Why did you come back?"

"To arrest your brother-in-law," David rumbled. "Is he in there?"

Cabrillo's face was a tense mask. It was clear he was at some kind of breaking point, and maybe a little relieved that the FBI had found its way here. "He's sitting next to Ana María in the dining room," he said tightly. The danger of the situation was evident in his eyes. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Go back inside and get yourself, your wife, and your daughters into the nearest room with a lock," Megan instructed. "Right now."

But the whispering had gone on just a hair too long. Worse, Megan and David were so busy keeping an eye on Tomás while they gave him instructions that they didn't see the curtain twitch in the dining room, or a squinty eye take in David and his exposed badge.

The cry of a six-year-old girl got their attention very fast. Tomás's head snapped up. "Ana!" he yelled, hurling open the door and running in.

Megan and David burst in behind him and realized in a stopped heartbeat that this whole thing was inches from falling apart. Pedro Mata stood at the end of the dining room, holding a terrified Ana María under one arm like a piglet and pulling out his gun, which he pointed squarely at the approaching college professor. Zulema rose in horror, grabbing Isabel by the collar and dragging her out of the way. And Tomás, all his fatherly instincts rushing to the fore, charged directly at his brother-in-law, reaching out a hand and shouting "No! Ana! _Basta_, Pedro! _Para_!"

Pedro did not stop. He hadn't gotten to the top of the bloodstained heap by following directions. He solemnly regarded his sister's husband, duly noted the newly-formed spine (he wasn't aware until now that _Tomasito_ had a backbone) … and pulled the trigger.

Tomás was knocked backwards by the force of the shot. He dropped like a brick.

Zulema and Isabel screamed. David ran to his side, and Ana wailed "_Papá! Papá, no_!" She started to fight hard, but her uncle held her very tightly, and she was so little that she had no chance. Megan grit her teeth, tried to ignore the chaos behind her, kept her weapon trained on both of them and barked, "Mata, it's over! Let your niece go! You're not getting out of here!"

Mata merely pulled the little girl (who was now sobbing hysterically) over his chest like a shield, and Megan cursed under her breath, unable to fire. They really should have called SWAT in – this whole damn thing was going belly-up. Mata was backing away from her, down the hallway. She kept her gun on him.

"David, stay with Tomás and call an ambulance!" she shouted, then cried out in surprise as Mata fired at her. The shot went wide by inches, slamming harmlessly into the wall, but in the space where she winced and thought she'd been hit, he took off at a pretty fast run, slinging little Ana María over one shoulder. Megan shook it off and gunned it after him, weapon still up, teeth bared and eyes glinting.

But Mata had just enough of a lead on her that he pelted out the back door and into the yard before she even made the screen. He turned right and slipped around the corner, and half a second later Megan flew out of the house. The ground out here was soft. Megan was wearing flats, but not running shoes, and the terrain wasn't helping her. She stopped for a moment to listen for breathing, maybe pinpoint his location if he were doubling back and hiding, and instead heard something from the front of the house – the distinctive roar of a motor.

"No," she said, her eyes widening. "No, damn it, no no no!"

She rounded the front furiously just in time to see a black sedan tear away into the night, and gripped her head in frustration. Mata had just shot his brother-in-law and made off with his niece as insurance. Now he was on the run with a six-year-old girl at his mercy, and this had gone from a simple arrest to an assault and kidnapping case – "assault" assuming that the whir of sirens in the distance meant the ambulance would get here in time to help save Tomás.

She flipped open her cell phone and hit speed dial two, willing her heart to slow down and holstering her gun one-handed. Don needed the run-down so they could figure out plan B, since plan A was out the window. She gritted her teeth as the phone rang and focused her thoughts on the facts rather than her building panic. The thing to do now was to find Mata and get Ana María out of harm's way.

He picked up on the other end and greeted her with a terse, "Yeah."

"Don?" she said wearily. "It's Megan. We have a situation here."

* * *

This chapter's title is pronounced "deh-seh-pah-re-SEE-thoh." It means, "Vanished." 

No, I would never be so cruel as to leave you here for long. Chapter 13 is coming soon. :-D


	14. Trece

**Chapter 13:** _En una noche oscura _

Megan chewed on her thumbnail as she stared up at the full moon, a bright hole in the blackness above her, and waited for Don to ask the inevitable question. The whine of the sirens was getting louder.

"Look Megan, whatever the situation is, you're going to have to deal with it on your own for a couple of hours," Don crackled on the other end. Megan could hear the distinctive rips of Velcro and the scratchy tug of Kevlar. He was putting on a vest. "Liz and I just got to the Inland Empire. We're near Cucamonga."

He didn't sound too happy about the "Liz and I" part, but Megan glossed over it.

"Cucamonga? What the heck are you doing out there?"

"Well, right after you guys left, I talked to OCU. They just got an anonymous tip that there was a major delivery coming in for Mata –" He broke off with a grunt of discomfort and Megan heard his complaint, now from farther away, "Liz, that's too tight!" followed by Liz's clipped answer of "Better snug than sorry." There was a weary sigh, and then he was back. "Anyway, they think it's that 'shipment' the guys on the tape were talking about. We just got here, and the truck is due in about an hour. We're going to try to make arrests and seize the cargo. What's going on?"

Megan bit her lip. "Well, we found Pedro Mata at the Cabrillos' house," she began.

"Hey, great!" Don said. He was coming in with a little more static.

Megan closed her eyes. "No, not great. Don, he shot his brother-in-law and took his niece hostage."

There was a pause. Megan pinched the bridge of her nose and prepared for an explosion.

"Well, is he still there?" Don barked.

"No. He got away. An ambulance is coming for Tomás, and I'm putting out an APB." _On a black sedan with plates that I didn't catch_, she added miserably in her head. _Shit. This is my fault. If we don't find this kid …_

Don's fierce whoosh of breath crackled across the line like a trade wind. "All right, start the search," he said at last, with relative calm. "All hands on deck. Interview the wife. She's Mata's sister, right? See if she knows where he might be heading. Call ahead to Charlie, too. Maybe he can work up another equation. And ask him what the status is on the datab – hey, hang on a second." The phone moved away, so the interruption was quiet. Don brought the phone up again. "Okay, look, the operation is a go. I can't talk anymore, and we're stuck here for a while. _You'd_ better get rolling on this kidnapping," he commanded sternly. "I want a full account when I get back."

"You got it," she said, and hit 'end.'

Her shoulders drooped in relief. That actually hadn't gone as badly as she thought it would. Don didn't sound pleased, but at least he didn't sound insanely upset. The sirens were getting much louder, like the ambulance was nearing their street. She got ready to flag it down.

* * *

Don glared up at the full moon. He was pissed off. Not at Megan or David, but at himself. They were just going down there on a hunch; it hadn't even occurred to him to send SWAT for back-up or do some remote surveillance before they went in, and because of his lapse in judgment the situation in Rolling Hills had turned disastrous. Two of his agents and a family had been in a stand-off with a very dangerous individual who was now on the run with a small child. They were all going to get questions about this one after the case was over.

The current situation wasn't helping his mood any. It was dark and cold and uncomfortable where he sat, huddled behind a large rock.

His Suburban, the SUVs of the other two teams of agents from OCU, and the SWAT vans were all black and shut off, tucked away behind nearby rock formations and blending in with the night perfectly. The agents and the SWAT team had decided to wait outside. They'd bundled up with jackets (it was about to get a little chilly out here), armed themselves and settled in behind rocks that circled around a wide open sandy area, keeping one particular stone within view. It was a large slab of gray granulite decorated with a white painted circle – the smugglers' way of marking their meeting place. They were about a mile and a half off the road and nestled in solid, dusty chaparral, with the moon and stars providing the only light. You could hardly see your hand in front of your face out here.

At least there hadn't been traffic. Since Agent Greene of the OCU was running point on this one, Don and Liz had dutifully spent the whole drive following the second OCU car east on the 210, with the rest of the officers trailing out behind. Soon they were flying past familiar places like Pasadena, then hitting cities more remote (Claremont and Upland), finally zipping across the northern rim of Rancho Cucamonga and passing the 15. Thankfully, Sierra Avenue was easy enough to find and they hauled north. Just underneath the freeway, as late homeward bound commuters roared by overhead, Sierra became Lytle Creek Road, the smooth pavement of suburbia turning pitted and cracked as they passed a few sparsely occupied truck stops.

The law enforcement caravan went about four miles up the two-lane to the hidden turn-off known only to the smugglers (and now them, thanks to the tip). It was designated by a broken "Curves Ahead" sign that hung on its side, so it looked like a squiggly arrow pointing off the road to the right and into the darkness. They did exactly as the sign said. After a few hundred feet the silence became almost absolute as they eased their cars over the dirt path through the quiet vastness of the night. The dust had been mowed flat by all the illegal traffic and all the agents had spent a few minutes trying to figure out which smugglers would logically come from what direction, and how they would position themselves to make the bust go as smoothly as possible.

As opposed to the fleet vehicles, the ambulances had stayed behind on Sierra in a bank's parking lot so as not to attract attention. The only reason the busses were on call was the last chilling part of the tip – that Mata's men were hauling live cargo, among other things.

Don looked up at the sky again and shook his head. He didn't know what to think about these guys making such a large drop on a full moon. It either meant that the bastards were really confident in their scheme and had no idea anybody was on to them, or the tip was bad and they wouldn't show, _or_ (and this was a thought Don really didn't want to contemplate) they knew somebody was coming to meet them and they were prepared to put up a fight.

He checked his gun by feel, then his watch, and zipped up his fleece-lined jacket over his vest. It was 9 o'clock; the shipment was due to arrive in half an hour. Something settled on his arm and he brushed it away, which caused a questioning look from his "rock buddy" that he declined to acknowledge. Since Megan had run off to a shoot-out with David, Don was now sitting next to Liz – someone he _really_ wasn't interested in talking to – behind a large hunk of stone in the dark asshole of nowhere until a truck showed up. Or not.

He sighed through his nose.

"You okay?" Liz asked.

Don glared at her shadowy face and didn't answer right away.

"Hey," Liz repeated. "You all right?"

_Crap._ Now he had to answer her or he'd come off looking rude. Besides, they were probably stuck here for a while and silent stake-outs, he knew from experience, really sucked. He humored her.

"No. I got a call from Megan before we had to go dark. Mata was at the Cabrillo house. He shot Tomás Cabrillo and made off with one of the girls. Megan and David are trying to catch him. I told them to rally the troops," he finished, rubbing his face.

"Oh my God," Liz muttered. "Where's that damn truck? I want to get out of here."

Don eyed her. "Now you know how I feel."

"Are Megan and David all right?"

"Far as I know," he said repressively.

There was officially nothing to do but wait.

Neither one of them attempted conversation again for a long time. Liz picked at her nails and Don tried to get comfortable on the hard, chalky earth. They leaned their backs against the rock, curled up their legs for warmth, brushed little buzzing night bugs off their jeans, listened to the occasional blip of chatter on their com-links and stared at the moon.

* * *

"Charlie, what do you have?" Megan called, running into the war room with a huge stack of files.

It was 10 PM and the bullpen was in chaos. Every second counted now that Mata was in the wind; agents had been rousted from home (or bed) and called in to help. People were on the phone all over the pen, trying to handle the influx of calls from the Tip Line because Megan's APB, vague as it had been, had nonetheless triggered the Amber Alerts on the freeways. Countless tips were pouring in about black sedans heading in all directions. Weeding through the info would be difficult, but each spotting was being routed to Charlie and Larry, standing by in the war room with pushpins and sticky notes, trying to work out patterns as the tips came in. Both of them felt terrible that their calculations had helped lead to such a catastrophe, but Megan had assured them it wasn't their fault.

She steadied herself with their presence and smiled at Amita as she set the papers down. Being in charge of an investigation (even for a few hours) was a little out of her experience area, and she marveled at how Don was able to do it with such ease. It didn't help her nerves that she knew the drill. The first 24 hours were critical. After that, the survival rate for kidnapping victims dropped significantly.

She walked over. David was working in here, too. He looked up from the stacks of paper around him.

"We're still trying to weed out information that doesn't make sense," Charlie answered her. "But Amita just successfully hacked the hacker in the database."

"His name's Daniel Ovitz," Amita took over, tiredly rubbing her eyes. "It took me a while to slip into his personnel file, but he's a high-level hacker who's done a lot of government work. DOD, DOJ – a lot of major agencies use his services. He's like Charlie, kind of, except he's gross and evil. Plus, he's dead."

Megan raised an eyebrow. The calmly authoritative tone, more appropriate to a university lecture than the FBI, made her smirk. Larry was standing just beyond the combinatorics specialist. He caught Megan's glance and smiled back.

"Okay. How exactly is he evil, and when did he die?" Megan asked.

"Well, judging by his list of clients, it looks like he did work for whoever would hire him and pay him well, no matter what the repercussions of his actions were," Amita said with barely hidden revulsion. "And he made a killing, up until a few weeks ago when he dropped dead of a heart attack." She brought up his drivers' license on the big screen. A bored-looking man with glasses, thin hair and three chins stared back at them. "At age 36," she went on. "ColbyGate was one of his last gigs."

"ColbyGate?" Megan repeated.

"I came up with it," Larry said proudly. (Charlie winced.)

"Any word on Tomás Cabrillo?" Amita asked.

"Still in surgery," Megan said. "But his wife and remaining daughter are still here. Right, David?"

"Yeah. Zulema's in Interview 2. Do you want to take her?"

"What about you?" she asked, feeling a little suspicious. David didn't normally turn down the chance to interview someone.

"I'm um … I'm working on this," he said evasively and gestured at the Cal Sci team.

"What are you doing?" She came over to his desk and looked over his shoulder. "What's all this?" she asked, picking up a piece of paper and scanning it. "Palisades Crematorium? David, what's going on?"

"Um, well, they're operating right now, so I'm gonna give them a call. This was the place that received Colby's body, according to Edwards. I just want to double check, make sure they have a record of it, you know, make sure that he didn't get lost here, too."

The pain was obvious in his voice. The two men hadn't ended their partnership on good terms, and Megan wasn't even sure David had really been able to grieve the death. She understood why he was doing this.

"All right," she said. "You can take 20 more minutes on this, and then it's back to Ana María."

"Gotcha."

Megan left him scribbling a list of names and jogged off for Interview 2.

* * *

At 10 o'clock, the truck was still a no-show. Liz hadn't made a peep since their last little exchange and her silence, combined with the wind, the darkness, and the uncertainty was irking Don. He just couldn't take it anymore. It was time to give it the old college try. He got the ball rolling with the most provocatively neutral question he could come up with.

"So Moreno called you something at the hospital. Kabbakeeta?"

To his surprise, Liz laughed and answered him. "_Cabuquita_. It was just a stupid nickname he made up. It's like, Little Kabuki, you know, because I'm a little bit Asian."

Don stared. "What? Wait a minute. I thought you were half Mexican."

"I am. That's my mom's side. But my dad is … oh, you'll love this. My dad is half German and half Japanese."

Don smiled back. "Wow. That'll get you beaten up. He wasn't born around World War II, was he?"

"Just after," Liz said. "He learned how to defend himself real quick – taught me, too. And Grandpapa Franz was the one who taught _him_. See, his family was from Bonn, but he was born in America. And he met Grandma Ume because her family was really rich and they sent her to beauty school in New York, where he was working. And so they got married and had my dad and, yeah. Like that."

"What about your mom's side?"

"Well, _Abuelita_ and _Abuelito_ are Mexican. She's from Sinaloa and he's from Veracruz. But her father's mother was a full-blooded American Indian, so on top of everything else, I'm 1/16th Cherokee. Seriously."

She laced her fingers behind her head. Don blinked.

"That's … pretty amazing. You're like a quilt."

She snorted. "I'm like a mutt. Hey, as long as we're talking, can I ask you a question?"

"Well, nothing's happening. Sure. Go for it."

"All right. What _are_ you, exactly?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, like, I'm a lapsed Catholic, myself. What are you?"

Don took a moment to think. "Ummm … Lame-Ass Jew. That's my official designation," he said while she laughed quietly. _God, it was good to hear that sound_, he thought. "See," he went on, leveling off invisible steps with one hand, "It goes Orthodox – those are the dancing guys in the hats that you see on the Chabad Telethon posters – Conservative, Reform…" His hand hit his thigh. "And Lame-Ass."

Liz giggled. "I'm assuming that's your delicate way of saying that you don't practice?"

"Yeah, basically. Charlie and I weren't raised religious."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "Mom and dad weren't interested. Mom's parents weren't all that into it. Grandpa Joe was kind of Catholic and Grandma Frieda was Jewish, but she didn't practice, so mom was kind of whatever about the whole thing. And poor Dad had religion shoved down his throat as a kid, so he refused to foist it on us."

"His parents were religious?"

"Oh, big time. His father was a Conservative rabbi, and the whole household was under his thumb. Mom actually kept us away from Dad's folks, I remember. She made excuses so we wouldn't have to visit, and Dad was totally with her on it. It was kind of sad."

Liz nodded. "So your parents left you guys alone?"

"Well, they tried. But um, Dad's folks … shew."

"What?"

"Well, they nagged him like crazy about raising us in the faith." Don snorted and shook his head. "Dad finally got sick of it. He and mom found a nice synagogue and I was … eleven? Yeah. I was eleven, so Charlie would have been six. Anyway, they put us in _cheder_ for like, five minutes. Didn't work out so well," he said with a grin.

"Hater?"

"C_heder_," he corrected her, beginning the word with a soft noise at the back of his throat. "It's like Sunday school. Except in our case," he explained, "it was three times a week, for like, two _mind-numbing_ hours at a stretch, _and_ we had to go to temple on Saturday. It was a total nightmare. I missed sports, Charlie missed tutoring… We couldn't stand it. We actually sort bonded a little bit to complain. I remember we called it _chell_."

Liz was amused. "That bad, huh? And …you didn't last long."

"Two weeks," Don said curtly.

"Oh yeah? What happened?"

"I um, I got thrown out for fighting."

Liz stared at him and raised an eyebrow. "I hope you didn't start it."

"Nah, it was the other guy. Alvin Cohen. Can't believe I still remember his name. Anyway, this kid was in my grade. Real smart mouth and a nasty disposition," Don went on, shifting against the rock and getting into it. "And he could get away with anything, pretty much, because his parents were loaded. His dad was the president of some company, mom was an heiress … they had this huge house in Beverly Hills. Hot and cold running servants, the latest and the greatest everything, blah blah blah. I went there at the start of the year."

"Why?"

"Oh, it was for this, um, this party. His folks hosted it and invited all the kids from the school. Mom made me and Charlie go. She wanted to kind of ease us into the thing." He shook his head.

"The party wasn't fun?"

Don snorted. "Uh, no. I remember," he licked his lips. "Oh, man. Okay, so Alvin led us on this tour of his house and showed us his room. He was like, 'this is my room, those are toys, there's my game system' – he had an Atari or something – 'and don't touch ANYTHING.' And he leads us away, right? Well _Charlie_, being, ya know, inquisitive and six –"

"Oh, no."

"Yeah. He didn't listen. He started pressing stuff on the Atari and Alvin caught him and started screaming at him, so _I_ started screaming at _Alvin_ and Charlie was hiding behind _me_ … Yeah. Anyway, it didn't end well. We left pretty quickly. But man, that kid had it in for me from that minute on. And I didn't like him either, so we started to give each other grief in class."

Liz smirked. "What happened with the fight?"

Don pulled on his lip. "Well, Alvin started it. We were in the sanctuary. We started squabbling over who got to hold the Torah, because I was carrying it, and he wanted to. Now, the thing about the Torah scrolls is that, you know, they're sacred. They can never touch the floor. If you let them fall, it's a _huge _no-no. So Alvin like, yelled at me, or startled me, or something. I think he called me a name. I don't remember. Anyway, I got pissed off."

Liz was fully engaged now. "What did you do?"

"Dropped the Torah and broke his nose," Don said matter-of-factly. "He got my lip, but then I got his eye, and somebody yanked us apart."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah, that's pretty much what the rabbi said," Don tossed off with a grin.

Liz tried not to laugh. "Yikes. Well, what about Charlie?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, did he get thrown out, too? Or was it just his hooligan brother?" she jibed, and nudged him.

Don smiled and scratched at an itch on his neck. "He … oh yeah, that's right! He actually got tossed out the same day as me. He was a crafty little twerp – he hid it _really_ well – but the teacher finally caught him."

"Caught him? What was he doing?"

"Math. What else?"

"Well, there's no problem with math, right?"

"There is when you scribble it all over a prayer book."

Liz gasped.

"Yeah. Each student got their own copy of it, and Charlie would always sit in the back of the class, really quiet and intent on his book, so the teacher thought he was, you know, this little angel. Well, when he finally saw Charlie's prayer book, and three quarters of the damn thing was full of equations … written _right over_ the Hebrew, no less …"

"Oh, no," Liz laughed. "Was he mad?"

Don raised an eyebrow. "Put it this way. I was already in the office for fighting with Alvin and he comes in – he's got Charlie by the collar, okay? He's _screaming_ in Hebrew, and he throws Charlie on the couch next to me like Charlie's a shirt. I mean, I _caught_ him. Literally. The guy just pitched him at me. And then he storms out, slams the door, and the head rabbi looks at us like 'you punks are so dead,' and he calls Dad. Oh man, what a mess," he said with a laugh, shaking his head at the memory.

Liz clamped her hands over her mouth and scrunched her eyes shut. It took her a few moments to stop giggling. Don was perfectly focused in her mind's eye, a stoic eleven-year-old in jeans and a button-up shirt, holding a wet paper towel to his fat lip and sitting on a couch with his free arm around a tiny, terrified version of Charlie, all curly hair and big brown eyes, both of them waiting miserably for the arrival of their father.

"Did your dad freak out?" she asked at length.

Don smiled. "No. He put on a real good front, though. The rabbi told him he was throwing us out for bad behavior, and he explained what happened, and Dad … man, he was good. He fooled everybody. He stood there and got all red in the face and apologized, and he looked at the two of us like we, you know, brought eternal shame on the family, he _dragged_ us both to the car – and Charlie and I are like, fearing for our lives at this point – and we drove away."

Liz tried to clamp down on her giggles again. "So what happened?"

Don licked his lips. "He pulled over about three streets from the synagogue. He was really calm. He said he wasn't mad, he was just pretending for the rabbi. And he asked me to tell him the story. So I told him the truth, and he said, 'Okay,' and he told us that if we ever did this in _regular_ school we wouldn't be able to sit down for a month and a half. And then he took us to Friedman's and bought us ice cream, and we never set foot inside a temple again."

There was a pause while Liz smiled and nodded in approval. "That … is … awesome. So, but, wait a minute, if you never went back to temple, I guess you were you ever burr – berr – um …"

"Barmitzvahed?"

"Yeah."

"Nope. Come to think of it, I don't think Charlie or I even had a _briss_. Uh, that's the naming ceremony."

"That's not the …?" She made a scissors motion with two fingers and Don laughed.

"No. No, that was at the hospital. Right after we were born, they got it taken care of. Dad told me once that he had more faith in a doctor than a _moyl_."

"I see," she said.

There was a moment of silence. They peeked out over the rock, looked for the truck, saw nothing was coming, and sat down again with a sigh.

Liz looked over at Don appraisingly. He was still grinning a little bit, which was good to see. She'd pumped up his smile frequency over the past few months, but she still didn't see it enough. And she was very encouraged that they were talking again, even if it was about silly stuff. Maybe this was just the right size opening to slip through and explain.

"I know you're still mad at me," she said.

Don smiled wanly at her. "It's hard to be mad and laugh at the same time. But yes."

Liz nodded. "Don, all that stuff with Andi … it was bullshit. We're good friends, and that's it. And I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to. It's just that, I didn't know if we were serious, and Andi and I … we were just having fun. Look, in any case, he's gone, and I'm definitely here now. So do you forgive me?" she finished, displaying the in-your-face honesty and strong, questioning nature that had drawn him to her in the first place.

Don sighed. "I _understand_ you," he said finally. "But I don't think you should be looking for forgiveness from me."

Liz bit her lip. Somewhere inside, she had expected an instant fix. His answer wasn't what she wanted to hear, but she didn't want to start another fight, so she nodded at the earth beneath her.

And Don cursed his own stupidity. As usual, he had something to say, and he'd managed to say it all ass backwards. Why couldn't he keep his tongue straight when it came to this woman? He tried again.

"That came out wrong."

Liz looked startled. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not saying I don't forgive you. I'm just saying that you asking for forgiveness from me … is kind of stupid. I mean, I'm not such an amazing person when it comes to romance." He sighed, closed his eyes briefly, opened them with determination, and went for it. "You were right about me. I'm terrible at committing. I've blown it big-time before. Although, I'm proud to say I haven't screwed up with you."

"Yet," she bit off slyly.

"I'm on a roll, do you mind?" he said seriously.

"Sorry, go ahead," she replied with a grin.

"All right. Well, I've had this said to me a few times, but I don't think I've ever said it to anyone else, so I'm starting to see how hard it is to get out, because it means admitting … stuff."

"Oh yeah, what are you about to admit?"

He swallowed. There was nothing for it. Somehow they had meandered from an amusing childhood story to 'the talk,' and he now had to put everything on the line and hope it didn't blow up in his face.

"Uh, well…" He cleared his throat. "It's like this. Every time we went to dinner, every time we kissed, every time we hung out, every time we made love … it, um, it really meant something to me. … _You_ mean something to me," he declared huskily, and then mumbled, "I guess that's why it hurt so much."

Liz stared into the darkness for a long moment before she finally decoded what Don had said. Buoyed by hope, she turned to him and lifted his chin; the brave touch caught him off guard and he blinked in surprise, but he didn't look away.

"You listen to me very carefully, Don Eppes. I messed up, but I came clean because I didn't want any secrets between us. It won't happen again, I promise. 'Cause you mean something to me too," she finished. Her eyes were a little bright.

Don opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a rumbling in the distance, curiously coming from two directions. Both of them snapped their heads up – Don to the right, Liz to the left. Don pulled out his binoculars for some preliminary surveillance and both agents inwardly cursed their quarry's timing.

"To be continued?" he asked.

"Yeah," she agreed.

Greene clicked in on the com-link. "_All units, be advised we have three approaching targets, one from the east and two from the west. Be prepared to go on our lead. Where are the EMTs_?"

"_On the move_," West, Greene's partner crackled over the radio. "_They should be at the perimeter within ten minutes_."

"_Team two ready. Let's do this for Moreno._" That was either Garcia or Vasquez, from the other OCU team; Don couldn't tell them apart on the system.

Liz pressed the button on her com-link and said, "Hear, hear."

"Team three ready," Don radioed. "On your lead, Greene. Let's get these sons of bitches."

Liz and Don remained motionless as bright headlights rolled over their rock, and then again from the opposite direction. Finally, three vehicles crunched their way into the sandy spot. A large white truck about the size of a small semi halted with a slight squeal of its brakes, and two smaller vehicles – bakery trucks, of all things – stopped about six feet from it, facing it head-on. They all left their headlights up, lighting the scene far better than the moon. Truck doors squeaked open, boots scratched on the gravel, male voices greeted each other rudely in Spanish, and finally the voices came to a decision to get moving on their task.

Liz nodded at Don, who returned the gesture, and both readied their weapons.

"_One, two, three_," Greene hissed over the headset. "_Execute, execute, execute!_"

Don and Liz pushed up as one, darted around either side of their rock, and ran in shouting.

* * *

Megan was at her wits' end. A spare agent was babysitting Isabel, who was curled up on the couch in the break room under someone's overcoat, fast asleep. The poor kid, overloaded by all the trauma of the last few hours, had simply passed out. And Megan might as well have been babysitting Zulema for all the help the woman was being. Beyond her scream when Tomás went down, she had been absolutely silent and stoic from the time they'd left the house and broke off from the ambulance to head up the 110. She'd also been silent in the face of Megan's questions.

"Okay, listen to me," she said finally, making sure her consonants were nice and crisp so there could be no misinterpretation. "I'm only going to ask you this one more time, and then I'm going to slap you with an obstruction charge. Where. Is. He."

Zulema regarded her for a long moment. "Agent," she said finally, "If I knew, I would tell you."

Megan narrowed her eyes. "You're not honestly trying to protect him. You can't possibly be thinking about his safety. Not after what he just did to your husband and your little girl."

"He would never hurt Ana María. Right?" Zulema's face was passive, but her voice shook on the last word.

"Zulema, he's a desperate criminal," Megan said, thoughts swirling in her head. It was always complicated when someone on the wrong side of the law was a family member. "Who he is to you … it doesn't erase what he's done."

"He's a business man." Tendons were ticking in Zulema's jaw.

"You're completely in denial," Megan spat, and played her card. "What the hell is wrong with you? He's kidnapped your _child_! He shot your husband right in front of you! If Tomás dies, he's a _murderer_!"

"He's my _brother_!" Zulema shouted back with clenched fists.

There was a pause as both women heaved for breath and stared at each other, Megan calmly (for she had achieved her purpose) and Zulema with something like horror. The anger stopped and faded away, and pain and guilt bubbled up to fill the void.

"You've been making that excuse for him your whole life, haven't you?" Megan asked quietly. "And look what happened."

Zulema winced at the questions – Megan had been right on the money. Exhausted by her outburst, she slumped in her chair and was overcome.

"He's my brother," she whimpered. She put her face in her hands. "Oh my God," she choked out, and began to sob. "Oh my God. … Tomás – save him! And Ana, _por dios_, find her! Please! Find my baby!"

Megan just laced her fingers and gave her subject some space. She knew it was pointless to ask questions or try to redirect the focus, at least for a little while. The nightmarish situation had finally plowed its way past Zulema's defenses and for the next few minutes the poor woman was incoherent with grief.

* * *

Note:

_En una noche oscura_ is the opening of a famous poem by San Juan de la Cruz, a well-known Spanish mystic of the 16th century. This line refers to a soul's internal struggle to find union with God, but it also suits my humble purposes just fine. It is pronounced "en oo-nah NOH-cheh o-SKOO-ra" and it means, "In the darkness of night."


	15. Catorce

**Chapter 14**: _… y en Los Angeles criada_

"FBI! Freeze!"

Don's commanding bellow was nearly drowned out by the cacophony of everyone else's shouting. Liz was just to his left, her body cutting through the darkness in long, lean lines, her gun guiding her like the tip of an arrow. Vasquez and Garcia were approaching from the opposite end. West and Greene were coming too, and the SWAT members were filling in the cracks. They had made a big, well-planned circle around these guys, and it was about to pay off.

Vasquez started yelling at them in Spanish and Don caught the word "_Réndense_!" quite a few times. The smugglers were plainly not interested in complying – either that, or "surrender" was not a word they knew in either English or Spanish. The six men circled up within the relative safety of their trucks (parked nearly nose-to-nose) and pointed their weapons at the approaching law enforcement, barking orders at their fellows. The feds were shouting across to the other teams in English, and then at the smugglers to entice them to give up, but the situation was quickly degenerating. Nobody was giving anybody an inch and soon everyone was menacing everyone else and yelling.

The officers, still calling for the smugglers' surrender, slowly crept forward and the arrest would have been clean and easy … if not for the smuggler in the cowboy hat. He looked to be the leader of the group and he happened to be holding the most serious piece of firepower – a fairly bad-ass-looking assault rifle – which he cocked before giving his fellows a firm nod. The only team member who saw the nod was Garcia. His dark eyes went wide as he realized what was about to happen.

"Get back!" he screamed, grabbing Vasquez by the collar and darting out of the way.

"_A la chingada, cabrones!_" the man in the cowboy hat yelled with a sneer, aiming at the Feds.

The smugglers opened fire and the next minute and a half was pandemonium. The world had shrunk down to a wide circle of sand and dust, full of flashing lights, all other sound blocked out by the rat-a-tat rain of competing firepower. The FBI and SWAT teams swore and scrambled to dive behind nearby rocks and cover their heads. By some miracle they managed this without anybody getting killed – although West howled in pain as a bullet sailed through his leg and Greene had to drag him out of the way – and the able-bodied immediately set to returning the favor, raining hell down on their attackers while trying not to hit the cargo holds of the trucks.

It was a difficult task but until they knew otherwise, those vehicles had live humans aboard, and they had to protect them. A federal slug taking an innocent life through a flimsy container wall was not an option. Don and Liz had jumped behind the same nearby rock. They took turns popping up like gophers and taking aim.

The firepower lit up Liz's slitted eyes and gritted teeth as she sprayed lead, doing some pretty extensive damage to the semi's engine and windshield before turning her attention on a potbellied, middle-aged smuggler in a dirty t-shirt. Her aim was true. The bullet went through his shoulder; he howled in pain and dropped his gun. Vasquez and Garcia quickly winged two more of the smugglers. Greene was trying to tend to West behind their rock. His panic was crackling over everybody's headset; the paramedics, a few minutes from the scene, were giving him instructions.

Just as Liz ducked back down to reload her spare clip, Don took a deep breath and shut out the chatter, willing himself to focus and end this. Time slowed to a crawl, the staccato pop of gunfire muting itself and the wind taking its place as he stood up and aimed. He wasn't a qualified marksman for nothing; one bullet finished the whole thing. The leader in the cowboy hat was turned around, busily taking pot shots at Vasquez and Garcia, and for a moment, no one was covering his back. Don squinted through his sight and put one straight through the crown of the guy's hat. The smuggler dropped like a rag doll in the dust. He didn't move.

It took the remaining smugglers a couple of seconds to notice this, but then a cry went up and just as suddenly as it had erupted, the firing stopped. Don and Liz peeked around their new rock, squinting in the haze of dust and headlights. Vasquez and Garcia were heading for the men, weapons up, shouting. Those who were still able to raise their arms had them in the air, looking at their dead leader in shock. Don and Liz came at them from the other side, SWAT ran over to help subdue any "unrulies" and the ambulances came screeching in. Two paramedics carrying a stretcher hopped out of one unit and made a bee-line for Greene, who was waving them over to the rock where he stood over his partner.

Don spared the sad scene a glance. A little to the left, and that bullet might have taken Liz and… He forced himself away from the what-ifs. Liz was standing next to him, breathing as hard as he was but perfectly safe. They got out their cuffs. Working in tandem with Vasquez and Garcia they made the arrests, reading the guys their rights and handing them off to SWAT. The smugglers were led away, some for medical attention and some straight into the van.

The four remaining agents, by unspoken agreement, headed for the tail-end of the semi. Vasquez checked his gun as they approached the roll-up door. With practiced ease he took aim at the lock and fired twice, blasting it apart. Don and Garcia undid the latch, wiggled their fingers underneath the lip of the door and pulled, sending the roll-up flying away and exposing the interior of the container. All was dark and quiet inside.

And then something moved at the back, knocking over a box. Everybody started, clicking on their flashlights and shining the beams around. Liz raised her weapon.

"FBI!" she announced, only to realize that English probably wouldn't do them any good here. She switched gears. "_Somos policia! Trabajamos para el gobierno de los estados unidos! Están rodeados – no hay salida! __Manos arriba y acérquense!_"

* * *

David looked in through the break room window and almost thought about not going in. Megan's eyes were closed and she was slumped on the couch under the shelter of Larry's arm. It was nearly midnight. Charlie and Amita, last he checked, were catching z's on some creatively arranged chairs in the war room. Charlie had come up with a preliminary filtering algorithm for the traffic data, and now all they could do was wait for it to run through Amita's computer program. Until it kicked out some kind of answer, they had nothing. 

Even Zulema, who had finally calmed down and really given Megan all she could, had no idea where her wayward brother might go. Megan had put her in the break room one floor up with Isabel in the hopes that mother and daughter could catch a nap.

David winced and rubbed his shaved head. Everybody needed to get all the sleep they could should they have to run after something, but he had something big from the crematorium and Megan needed to know. He opened the door with just the right amount of force to make it squeak. Megan sniffed, blinking herself awake. She saw him approaching and wiggled upright, waking Larry up in the process.

"Hi," David said apologetically. He sat down on the coffee table in front of her.

"Hey," she said. "What's up?"

"Well, I got interrupted a lot, but I finally spoke to the Palisades Crematorium to see if they had any paperwork on Colby. I wanted to keep this low key, so I made up a list of names to give them. I threw in some blanks – I put Charlie in, and Hodges in Accounting, and some other folks who I know are alive, and Granger."

Megan was giving him her full attention. "And?"

David sighed. "Well, the blanks came back blank, which I completely expected. But, and here's the really messed-up part … they have no record of Colby."

Megan stared. "They –"

"I'm not just talking like they lost the ashes or something," David explained. "They have no record of receiving the body."

Now he had Larry's full attention too. The physicist scratched his head. "How bizarre. Perhaps Colby's body was inadvertently sent someplace else?"

He shook his head no. "Edwards sends all its cremations to Palisades. It's the only facility they use. And Colby checked cremation on his form, so…" He sighed. "Megan, this is getting really weird. It's like Colby was killed … and then _erased_ … and then nobody even listened to his final wishes. I mean…" It was late. He was frustrated and angry, and he felt himself losing his cool. "What happened?" he finally demanded, control slipping away. "What the hell happened to my friend?"

Sensing he was on the verge of really embarrassing himself, he winced at what had already escaped him, and shut up. Megan stood and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, okay? Stay put for a second. I'll make a phone call and we'll figure this out."

David stared at the floor and tried to even out his breathing. He didn't catch the look that Megan shot between him and Larry, or Larry's obedient nod, only glancing up when Megan walked out back into the bullpen.

"Would you care for some tea?" Larry asked. "I'm going to get a cup for myself."

"No thanks," the agent mumbled, running a hand over his tired eyes.

* * *

Don wiped some dust off his cheeks and peered into the van with everyone else. There was a moment of silence, as though whatever was in the truck was coming to a decision, and then all at once a rumble of footsteps sounded at the back of the cargo hold and a small crowd of shifting bodies moved forward. The voice startled everyone. 

"_No dispare, por favor!_" It sounded like a frightened girl.

Liz continued the protocol. "_Si les vemos, no disparamos. Acérquense._" Then she turned to Don. "Here they come."

Don and the others kept their flashlights on the gloomy interior of the truck. Sneakers banged against the metal floor of the truck and at least forty separate feet came clunking towards them, heralding the arrival of a pack of … kids. They were just kids, all of them. A tanned, scrawny girl in a torn school uniform, standing a head taller than the others, calmly moved to the front of the group. Her arm was slung protectively over a little wisp of a boy with a kitchen bowl haircut. He leaned against her nervously and curiously peered out at the officers. The girl licked her cracked lips and Don saw a flash of metal in her mouth. She had bags under her eyes and her long black hair hung in two messy plaits. She couldn't have been more than fourteen years old.

The whole group stood at the lip of the truck, waiting for the girl to scope out the situation. She'd obviously been elected the leader during their trip.

"_Aqui estamos, señora_," the girl said with a quiver in her voice. "_Sé que son Federales, pero no dispare, les mendigo_."

Liz, realizing she still had her gun out, immediately slung it over her back and dropped the intimidation. "She thinks we're Federales, that we'll kill them," she explained for Don's benefit, and turned back to the girl.

"_No, no no. No somos Federales, mija. __Somos FBI. __Es diferente. Ven aquí y les ayudamos, eh_?"

She held out her arms. The girl eyed her cautiously for a long moment, but then decided to accept the offer. Liz lifted her a little bit, as the distance from the truck to the ground wasn't very kid-friendly, and set her down. The girl dusted herself off and reached up for the little boy, who clambered into her arms.

Don, sensing a change in the atmosphere, moved forward with Vasquez and Garcia to help, and soon all the agents were plucking the children off the semi like apples and setting them gently on the ground. None of them (with the exception of the girl) were older than twelve. The youngest was about six. Most of the kids were filthy and wobbly and not even trying to run, which was a little disconcerting. But at least that made it easier for the paramedics to help them.

While Vasquez and Liz kept the kids in line to be assessed, speaking to them gently in Spanish to reassure them, Don and Garcia scoped out the truck. It was plain that the smugglers didn't give a damn what condition their cargo arrived in, and the two agents couldn't help but make little noises of disgust as they investigated. The "riding area" used by the group was a dirty spot on the floor boxed off (mostly) by crates. There wasn't a seat belt in sight. The only ventilation was coming in through the slats in the metal sides. A spot off to the right smelled like urine. The ground in the sitting area was strewn with wrappers. It looked as though each kid had been given three power bars and a bottle of water to survive a journey that must have easily taken a day and a half. And if they were traveling when the sun was out, who knew how hot it might have gotten in the truck.

Don shook his head. "Look at this. Those idiots are lucky none of these kids are dead."

Garcia nodded. "I'm not stopping 'till they're in prison."

"Me neither," Don agreed.

By the time the two men had completed their investigation and clambered out of the truck, the second medic was evaluating the last child. They walked over to the ambulance. The teenaged girl and the little boy were sitting on the tailgate talking to Liz. Don nodded at her and turned his attention to the medic, a plain young woman with a brown ponytail.

"What's the verdict?" he asked.

"Low blood sugar and slight dehydration," the medic replied. "And a few skinned knees. These kids got really lucky." Don nodded in agreement. "Listen, Agent," she went on, "We only have water, and we should stay on site until FPD shows up. Any way we can get some nutrients into them?"

Don and Garcia shared a look.

"Jack in the Box is open all night, right?" Don said.

"Yeah," said Garcia. "We passed one on the way up, I think." He was already digging out his car keys. "What's the head-count?"

Don glanced at the squirmy sea of children around him and blew out a breath. One confused kid was toddling off for the bushes and Vasquez was trying to corral him. They had four remaining FBI agents, three FBI vehicles, and one remaining ambulance. The other bus had long ago taken off with West (Greene was riding along), and the SWAT van had just left with the five live smugglers. Fontana PD was on its way with a perimeter and a Coroners' van for the man Don had shot, which was good – the more grown-ups, the better.

"Call it thirty," he said, digging out his wallet and handing Garcia forty bucks. Liz, watching this exchange, left the kids for a moment, fished out a wrinkled twenty and handed it over without comment. "Get all the liquids you can – OJ, light soda, um, water … what else. Cookies. Lots of cookies. Clean 'em out. Soon as you get back, we'll split the kids among the cars and head for LA."

"Sounds good," Garcia said, trotting for the van.

Don found himself alone for the moment with Liz, since Vasquez was occupied with the "wanderer." He threw an arm over her shoulder. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. She's not, though," she said, and gestured at the back door of the ambulance, where the teenaged girl was drinking some water. "She's kind of freaked out. Her name's Beatriz. That little one sitting next to her is her younger brother, Carlos. Come on, I'll introduce you."

She gently untangled herself. Don figured she'd just walk away and he'd follow, but in a surprise move she took him by the hand and led him along. They shuffled over to the parked ambulance and stood facing the tailgate where the girl sat, her arm still over the little boy. She looked up as they approached.

Liz smiled at Beatriz, who drained her paper cup of water and smiled back.

Then Carlos saw Don. "_Quien es_?" he asked in a quiet, husky voice and pointed at him.

Liz smiled. "_Este es mi compañero Don._"

Don smiled pleasantly and said "_Hola_," one of the few Spanish words he was sure about, but his pronunciation gave him away immediately. The little boy looked confused for a moment. Then he grinned, turning sly.

"_Don quien? Don Alonso? Don Manuel? Don Fulano?_"

"_Ah, Carlos!_" Beatriz chided.

Liz laughed. Don was confused. "He thinks your name is a title," she explained.

"Oh," Don realized. "No, I'm just Don."

"_Solo Don_," Liz translated. She opened her mouth to ask Beatriz something, but Carlos interrupted.

"_Es su amigo?_" he asked.

"_Sí_," Liz said, with an indulgent smile.

"_Es su amigo especial? Es su novio? __Es su marido?_" he chirped mischievously.

Liz stopped smiling and raised an eyebrow at the kid. Beatriz put her hands on her hips and glared at him in disgust. Don was out of the loop, but he could tell something was fishy by the expression on Liz's face.

"What's going on?" he asked. "What did the kid say?"

"_Les ofendiste_!" Beatriz scolded her little brother.

"_No ofendí el hombre por nada_," Carlos protested. "_Míralo__, Bibi. __No habla español! Y más, es –_"

"_Carlos Eduardo, o te callas o te callo?_" she snarled.

She'd raised the back of her hand with a grim expression, and looked very serious about following through. Her little brother stopped. Only when he had his eyes on the dust, looking thoroughly repentant, did Beatriz set her hands in her lap, turn to Liz and apologize.

"_Señora, le perdona, por favor. Es chiquito. __No sabe como comportarse_."

"Liz?" Don asked.

"Oh, he's just being a kid," Liz said. "He likes to talk. His sister keeps him in line pretty good, though."

Don looked at the siblings in amusement. "Yeah, well tell the girl I have a little brother who can't shut up, either. And tell the boy that he better behave if he wants to get a cookie when Garcia comes back."

Liz relayed the message and the kids nodded, Beatriz with a little smile, and Carlos with wide eyes and stiff shoulders.

"Listen, Don, why don't you help Vasquez corral and I'll see if I can get a story out of these two?" Liz suggested.

"Okay," he said. He squeezed her shoulder and wandered off.

Liz flipped a bang behind her ear, smiled gently at the kids, and started the informal interview.

* * *

Megan checked her watch as she dialed. It was very late, but the night shift would be working, so she'd definitely be able to reach someone. 

After three rings, someone picked up. "Morgue, this is Dr. Jacobs," a male voice said tiredly.

"Hi, Dr. Jacobs, this is Special Agent Megan Reeves with the FBI," Megan introduced herself. "I'm just checking up on some paperwork. The Bureau captured a spy who was imprisoned at Edwards and died there. I need to know the name of the ME who signed off on the autopsy."

"Sure. What's the name of the deceased?"

"Colby Granger."

"Hang on a second."

Megan waited as keys clicked softly in the background. Shifting sounds on the other end heralded some deep breaths. "Agent?"

"Yes."

"Um, yeah, I have that file. It says that Dr. Andover signed off on it."

"And Dr. Andover is an older guy, right? Maybe seventy? Caucasian? White crew-cut? Glasses?" Megan studied her nails, bored, as she described the man who'd pulled open the curtain for them that ghastly morning nearly a month ago. The silence on the other end confused her. "Hello?"

"Agent, I um, I don't know who you're talking about."

Megan leaned forward in her chair. "What, Dr. Andover isn't a white guy?"

"Dr. Andover is a _young_ white guy," Jacobs said, sounding perplexed. "And his hair is really dark. Who were you describing?"

"The man who displayed Colby Granger in the viewing room," she answered him. Concern was seeping into her voice. "Do you have anybody of that description working in the morgue at Edwards?"

"Agent, I – I don't know what to tell you. There's nobody here over forty."

"Oh, my God," Megan murmured. "Okay, listen. Do you have cameras in the morgue?"

"Yes, we do. There's a camera in the viewing room."

"That's perfect. Can you send over your footage from August 2nd of this year? Say between 8 and 10 AM?"

"Yeah, sure, I can do that. We've all gone digital, so I can send you an MPEG."

"Great. I'll wake up my tech people. Go ahead and send it as fast as you can."

"Will do."

"Thanks." She hung up and chewed on her lip. This was getting stranger and stranger.

* * *

Garcia rolled up just as Fontana PD arrived and the scene, which had been quiet for a few minutes, was soon buzzing again. Police officers and CSI were taking photographs and Vasquez and Don herded the kids towards Garcia, who started passing out food and drinks. The three male agents began to separate the kids up into groups, trying to see how many they could safely cram into each of the three FBI vehicles to get them back to HQ. 

The kids had no ears for their conversation. They were enthusiastically slurping down orange juice and getting cookie crumbs on themselves, and the jump in their energy level was pretty immediate. Some of them wandered over to the coroners, curious to see what would happen with the dead man, but Vasquez shooed them back. There was nothing more for the paramedics to do and they had other areas to cover, so they politely nudged Beatriz and Carlos off the back of the rig, closed the door and rumbled away. The brother and sister were standing there talking to Liz when Don came over with drinks – the interview was just ending.

"_Tenemos un dicho_," Beatriz finished. "_En el Distrito abogada, y en Los Angeles criada_."

Liz nodded solemnly and handed her and Carlos juice and cookies. She accepted a bottle of water from Don and took a sip. The kids wolfed down the food and Liz tried to tell them to take it easy, but they were hungry and thirsty and it was hard for them to be patient. Finally she told them in Spanish to join the others near Vasquez and Garcia. They walked off, hand in hand, and she was free to talk to Don.

"So what did they tell you?" he asked.

"Well, for starters, they're not supposed to be here. Remember when Andi was telling us about Mata's operation in the capital in Mexico? The human trafficking, picking up street kids?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Beatriz and Carlos don't fit the bill. They're middle-class, educated. Mom's a nurse, Dad's an accountant … Beatriz kept telling me her parents are probably at home flipping out. They're desperate to call. Anyway, they got swept up by accident, and that's how they ended up on that truck. But they said they talked to the other kids, and most of them got conned. All these other little ones have relatives in the states, and these men …" Liz shook her head in anger. "These bastards lied to them, and told them that they were taking them to see their relatives. All they had to do was get on."

"Yeah, and end up as bed toys, or worse," Don muttered.

"Right. We got 'em, though. And Mata's whole system is falling apart, which means he won't be doing this to anybody else. I wonder how everybody's doing on the kidnapping?"

"Well, we'll find out when we get back," Don said, stretching his arms up over his head. "Hey, what was Beatriz saying to you just now? Something about Los Angeles, and a lawyer?"

Liz smiled sadly. "She's a pretty perceptive girl. She was talking about the relatives of those little ones, the illegals who are working here in the States as maids, or whatever. Basically she said that it doesn't matter how smart you are in Spanish – if you don't speak English in America, you're screwed."

Don twisted the cap off his water bottle and gulped some down. "Well, we can't change something like that, but at least we can do something for these kids."

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"Get them home."

* * *

Notes: 

… _y en Los Angeles criada _(pronounced ee yen lohss AN-heh-less kree-YAH-thah) is the end of Beatriz's sad comment on the condition of illegal immigrants in this country. It's not a real _dicho_ ("saying") – I just made it up. _En el Distrito abogada y en Los Angeles criada_ means, "In the capital of Mexico a woman can be a lawyer, but here in Los Angeles (since she doesn't speak English) she's relegated to being a maid."

On a side note, "Carlos Eduardo" is the Spanish version of "Charles Edward." And I must thank a friend of mine who said, and I quote, "Oh yeah, I busted out an "_o te callas o te callo_ at work today." I knew immediately that I had to give Beatriz that line. It literally means, "Are you going to shut up, or am I going to shut you up?" (The implication being, "Because either way, you're shutting up.")

If anybody wants a translation on the rest of the Spanish, feel free to e-mail me and I'll oblige. Next chapter is coming soon. :D


	16. Quince

**Chapter 15**: _La caída_

Megan looked in through the war room window and almost decided against it, because Charlie and Amita needed their sleep. But this couldn't wait; she sighed and opened the door. Nobody stirred. She quickly walked over to the far corner, where she found them curled on their sides. They were spooned in the middle of a makeshift nest of office furniture with Charlie's jacket thrown over them. Hating herself for waking them up, Megan leaned down and shook their shoulders gently.

Amita blinked and squinted up into the fluorescent lights. "Hey," she rasped.

Charlie half-opened his bleary eyes and mumbled, "Wha'? Algorimm's done?"

"Not that I can tell," Megan said, turning briefly to check the computer where Amita's program was running Charlie's filter on the data. "Guys, I'm sorry to do this, but you need to get up. The morgue at Edwards is sending us a video file, and I need you two to pull a viable face off it and run it through every database you can."

Amita rubbed her eyes. "Why?"

"Because something really freaky is going on," Megan answered her while looking out the window. David was heading her way, Larry in tow. He pushed open the door.

"Find anything interesting?" David asked.

Megan eyed him just as Charlie struggled to sit up behind her. "You mean, aside from the fact that the M.E. who showed us Colby's body is a ghost?"

David's eyebrows went up. "What?"

"Yeah. Here's what happened. I called the morgue and…" Her front jeans pocket suddenly burst into a tinny chorus of the 1812 Overture. She pulled out her cell phone, flipped it open and put it to her ear.

"Don? … You're coming in? Everything went okay? … That's great. … Oh yeah, we've got something for you, too," she said wryly, looking at the assembled. "Did you and Liz play nice?" she asked with a smirk. "All right, all right. I'll see you soon." She hit 'end' and was about to continue when one of the computers chimed.

Amita gracefully got up to check it. "MPEG's here," she said after a moment, smoothing back her mussed hair. She flopped into a rolling desk chair and began to type.

Charlie followed her with much less grace, stumbling over a table leg and skipping once to right himself. "I'll boot up the image databases and we'll get started," he informed everyone. "Megan, what did Don say?"

"The raid went off pretty well – there was some resistance, and Greene's partner got injured, but the tip panned out. They arrested some key smugglers and saved about twenty-five kids from being … well, never mind. Don and Liz are a half hour out. Vasquez and Garcia are following, and everybody's hauling kids with them."

"That's great," Charlie said. "Nice to know that _something's_ working, at least." He glared at the computer set up to run his 'black sedan' algorithm, which was running top speed with no success. The tips had been dribbling off over the past hour. Probably just as well.

"Okay. So. Morgue," Megan went on. "David, I called. Remember the old guy who did the 'viewing,' with the crew-cut?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, he signed off on Colby's autopsy as Dr. Andover. The trouble is, the guy on the phone didn't recognize the description I gave. Whoever showed us Colby's body … he doesn't work there."

David stared. "What the heck is going on?"

Larry scratched his head. "This is becoming way too confusing. I think I need a longer nap. And I saw that eye roll, Charles."

Charlie bit back a grin and started typing. "I didn't do anything."

"Is this the guy?" Amita interrupted their bickering, freezing the MPEG at a certain spot and projecting the frame onto the screen.

Megan and David looked. There he was, the elderly gentleman with the glasses and white crew-cut. He hadn't been a figment of their imagination.

"That's him," David confirmed.

"Okay," Charlie said. "Let's fiddle around with this and take his asymmetry quotient."

Amita nodded, and they got to work. Larry watched from behind them, as did Megan and David, as they manipulated the image of the man and took careful measurements of his face distances: eye to eye, forehead to nose, etc. After a few minutes, Amita had the numbers.

"Charlie, are you ready?"

"Yep," he said, heading over to the computer that was set up to run the databases.

"Plug this in." She rattled off a stream of information to him and he typed furiously, finally hitting a few buttons.

"All right, so this is going to look in all the image databases," he explained as the program ran, "But because we put in such a specific string, the computer should be able to use its own algorithm to filter effectively. See, already, there's nothing in NCIS – which is probably a good thing, come to think of it. Now it's running the ID database and the DMV, which will –"

A blip stopped Charlie's chatter mid-sentence. Everybody looked up. On the big screen was a California ID card. The elderly gentleman looked much less kindly than he had at Edwards (the picture was more of a mug shot than an ID) but it was a positive match. "Roy Andover," the name read.

"That's definitely him," David said.

"And he _is_ an Andover," Megan commented in disbelief. "Just not the right one! This is crazy." She turned to everyone. "Do you guys realize that if we hadn't asked questions, this whole thing would have been swept under the rug? Charlie, bring up his stats, can you?"

"Umm … sure. Hang on." Charlie entered the info on Roy Andover into the FBI's personal information database and brought it up on the full screen so everyone could see. "Hey, check this out," he said, scrolling through the information. "His _nephew_ is Dr. Andover. Russ Andover is listed as an M.D. – a pathologist. He's working at Edwards. And Uncle Roy … is retired."

"From what?"

Charlie hit a few more keys, delving further and bringing up Andover's financial records. "Don't know, but…" He scanned the pages for a few seconds. "These are his bank statements. He gets a pension every month from Local 706, whatever that is."

"706? Are you serious?" Amita asked. Everyone turned to her. "Sorry. Um, that's shorthand for the Make-up Artists and Hair Stylists Guild." And then she realized people were waiting to hear how she knew. "My college roommate was desperate to join," she finished. "Ted was going to ArtCenter for sculpture, but he really wanted to make monster faces for the movies. I think he's working in the industry now."

"Okay, wait a minute," David said. "So now we have a lost body and an M.E. who isn't really an M.E."

"Charlie, can you bring up Roy Andover's credit card statements for July?" Megan asked, riding a hunch.

Charlie nodded and did so. He scanned the listing for the Andover's Mastercard. Megan wandered over to it and chewed her thumbnail for a moment. Then she pointed.

"Highlight the fourth row."

A few keystrokes did it. Everyone blinked at the information. Charlie was mystified – not at the $450 charge or the late July date, but at the sale site.

"What's Movie Magic?" he asked.

"It's a store in Toluca Lake," Megan supplied. "I drive by it sometimes – they do a huge business in special effects make-up supplies. So everybody, tell me something," she went on, turning to face them. "Why the hell would a _retired_ 706'er need to buy over four hundred dollars worth of stuff from a make-up store, six days before heading into Edwards Air Force base and impersonating a Medical Examiner?"

There was a moment of quiet while everyone tried to come to some conclusion about this, but the silence was short-lived because there was a sudden burst of activity in the bullpen. An exhausted aide came running in just as the war room clock struck 2 AM.

"OCU just got another tip," she said. "The person on the other end said something about a black sedan, and a man, and a little girl in a pink sweater. Gave an address, too – 508 Valencia."

"Get a trace?" Megan asked.

The aide nodded. "Payphone on the corner of Pico and Constance. Valencia is just a couple of blocks away."

"Ana Maria was wearing a pink sweater," David remembered, standing up and tucking in part of his shirt.

Charlie glanced over at his algorithm just out of habit, and noticed with a start that it was finished. "Hey, guys?" he said. "We have a search area." He hit a few keys and brought it up on the screen. "It's pretty big –"

"But it's delineated right around that intersection," Larry pointed out, tapping the magnified map. The intersection of Pico and Constance was nearly dead center in the prescribed search area. "Megan, this tip could very well be as good as the one that sent your friends out to Cucamonga."

"I say run with it," Charlie agreed.

Amita nodded too. "We'll hold down the fort and send anything else we find out."

"Okay, let's go," Megan said. "David, call Don, would you?" He nodded. She briefly thanked the aide and the two agents charged out into the bullpen. "All right, heads up!" she announced. "We have a hot tip on the kidnapping. Somebody send SWAT to 508 Valencia Street for preliminary surveillance and call LAPD for back-up." The bullpen came to life as people responded to her orders. "We gotta move fast and swoop in before they change location. Let's go!"

* * *

The drive back from Cucamonga was very quiet. Don made his way carefully down the 5 from the 134 interchange, keeping the bumps to a minimum and inching over to the right in stages, gradually aiming the car at the 110 ramp to get to Downtown. There was hardly anyone else on the road, which made it a lot easier. Liz had shotgun. She was resting with her eyes closed and her arms around one of the smallest kids from the raid, who had fallen asleep in her lap. The remainder of the vehicle was packed, as safely as possible, with ten other children. Most were napping, but a few were making quiet conversation in Spanish. Beatriz and Carlos were way at the back, conked out with their heads knocked against the cabin wall. Vasquez had eight more little travelers in Greene's SUV, and Garcia had six in the last car. Between the four agents, they'd managed to get everyone out of there in one shot.

Now it was back to HQ for official statements and then, at the last possible second, to the INS detention center. The place was notoriously grim and Don had no interest in sending the kids there, but they were here in this country illegally and they had to be processed before they were deported. He sighed, flicked on his turn signal and took the ramp with ease.

Just as they hit the top of the narrow, curvy ramp and merged onto the 110 heading into Downtown, his cell phone buzzed in his shirt pocket and he lifted it out. "Eppes?" he asked quietly. Liz didn't stir. David was on the other end. As Don listened to the details – the bureaucratic snafu with Colby, their bizarre discovery of the fake M.E., and the tip that had come in about Ana Maria – he pressed the gas pedal a little harder.

By the time he hit the Wilshire/6th exit, he was doing 80.

* * *

David planted his feet and pressed his back against the SWAT tactical van. He shifted himself to and fro, using his Kevlar vest for friction to alleviate the itch at the center of his back, sighing in relief when it worked. Megan, slumped next to him, smiled. He caught her look.

"What?"

"I saw an elephant doing that once."

David glared halfheartedly at her and checked his watch. 3 A.M. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around the van at the condemned building across the street, a ghastly peach-colored apartment complex which had likely been billed (charitably) as a "live-work space" at some point in the past, because it quite literally bordered on an area zoned for industry and commerce. The building to the left was home to a document disposal company, separated from the apartment complex by an unlit alley marred by the spidery shapes of the complex's rusty fire escapes and the business's dumpsters. The name "U-Bet-We-Shred" had been artfully spray-painted above the door in garish colors, muted somewhat by the night and the dim glow of the streetlamps.

"What day is it?" David asked.

Megan yawned and picked at her own Kevlar armor. "Thursday, I think. Where's Don?"

"On his way with Liz. He should be here … hey, there they are," he said, pointing as an SUV rolled up and parked a few feet away from them.

Their base of operations was in a perfect spot. The SWAT team had set up camp in a parking lot right behind a convenience store which happened to be directly across the street from the building, giving them both a good vantage point and excellent cover. Two officers were running the base – all the others had already been dispatched – and they were arguing over their maps by flashlight, pointing at spots on the paper where it was spread out on a rickety table. An ambulance was on stand-by right next to it. LAPD had spent the last ten minutes quietly setting up a perimeter with unmarked cars all around the apartment building and laying down sawhorses in the darkness. The streetlights were at their dimmest at this hour, making the task much easier. Don and Liz got out.

"They called on the way," David explained with a yawn, apparently catching it from Megan. "Left the kids at HQ with assigned watchers – no sense putting them in the detention center until it's absolutely necessary. 'Sides, I don't think the damn thing is even open at this hour."

"Neither are my eyes," Megan grumbled. "Hey, guys," she said as Don and Liz wandered over, his arm casually slung over her shoulder. "I assume you're up to speed?"

"Yeah," Liz said.

Megan eyed them. Their body language – comfortable and connected – was a complete one-eighty from the last time she saw them, making her wonder what had happened on the raid.

"You guys … okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," Liz repeated, with a small smile and a wink.

Megan made a mental note to ask later. "Okay, so as you know, we got a tip from a payphone a few blocks away. Ana Maria and Pedro Mata were described perfectly, and the last nail in the coffin was the black sedan parked over there." She pointed. Don and Liz looked and sure enough, there was a black sedan parked outside the building, a little to the right of the main entrance.

A SWAT member jogged toward them. "Agents?" he said. "Surveillance is coming in. We have three warm bodies moving around on the top floor of the place. How do you want to do this?"

"Three?" Don said. "I thought it was just Mata and the girl."

"No sir, there's definitely one more person in there."

"You have eyes on anybody?"

"Negative. But we infiltrated the building on the right. We've got ears. Sounds like there's some kind of argument going on and…" One hand went to his headset. "Yes, copy. I'll relay." He looked back up at the agents. "Agents, we have infrared confirmation that one warm body is on the move, heading for the bottom floor of the building."

"Intercept, now," Don commanded, grabbing his com-link from where it hung down his shirt and planting it firmly in his ear. "You guys get in there and be ready to go on my signal. Tell LAPD to get ready, too. We don't know who's coming out. Rest of you, follow me."

He and the team trotted around the convenience store to the sidewalk and immediately made themselves small, ducking behind a car parked directly across from the black sedan. The confirmation crackled over all of their headsets – "_Confirm one child heading out the front door. Repeat, one child._"

Megan and Liz poked their heads up very carefully. Ana Maria, her little pink t-shirt smudged with dirt and her matching sweater tied around her neck like a cape, stumbled out into the front yard of the apartment complex. She looked around, dazed and confused but otherwise unharmed, checking the street for signs of life. It was pretty dark and the police officers had hidden themselves well.

"Hello?" Ana Maria called.

The officers, frozen in their various hiding places, couldn't answer her so as not to lose the element of surprise. Ana Maria figured she was alone. She took a few tentative steps forward and then, when still no one moved, she started to run.

"She's heading right at us. We need to grab her," Megan hissed at Don.

"Do it, but be careful," he hissed back. "Mata could be watching. He sees us, we're blown."

Megan nodded. Just as Ana Maria went running past the car, she pulled a pretty slick move perfected from years of Krav Maga. In one smooth motion, she scooped up Ana Maria, clapped a hand over her mouth, turned and ran in a crouch through the alley to the Tac van parked behind the store. The hand-clamp was smart because the little one, understandably frightened, screamed all the way to the SWAT base although Megan did a good job of muffling her. She didn't risk even speaking to her until they were safely behind the van.

"Shh shh shh," she hushed, and made sure Ana Maria could see her in the light from the van. Only when the girl's eyes widened in recognition did she let go of her mouth and set her down on the ground.

"You were at my house," she whispered.

"Right," Megan murmured back, putting an arm around her. "And you're safe now, okay? You just have to be very, very quiet. We're going to take your uncle away. Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head. "Is my daddy …?" She couldn't get the word out.

"As far as I know, he's okay," Megan said, trying to comfort her. A SWAT guy approached in his big bulky armor. He smiled at Ana and waved. Ana looked up at him with wide eyes, a little scared of the armor and unsure about him.

"This is Officer Vlaske," Megan explained. "You stay with him, and the rest of us will take care of everything else, okay?"

Ana Maria nodded.

"Um, Ana, one more thing. Who's up there with your uncle?"

The child gulped. "_Güero_," she said. "He's _Tío_ Pedro's bodyguard. He just … he just turned on _Tío_. I think he's going to kill him! He was yelling bad words at him, and then he pulled out a gun and he made _Tío_ Pedro let me go. He – He saved me. And he…" Her eyes got big. "He knows you're here! He said if I saw the FBI, I should say, 'Get back,' and run really fast."

Megan looked confused. "Get back? Get back from what?"

The deafening bang, the flash of light that lit up the roof of the convenience store, and the shaking ground gave her an answer in under a second. Without a thought, the SWAT guy picked up Ana Maria and started to move for a safer place

"Oh my God." She took off at a run for her teammates. "Ana, you're all right, baby! Just stay with Vlaske!" she shouted over her shoulder. The little girl nodded.

Megan rounded the corner of the convenience store and darted for the parked car, where Don, Liz, and David were huddled together on the sidewalk side, holding their ears and trying to get their bearings. The force of the blast had seared the street side of the unfortunate late-model Buick they were hiding behind, but it didn't look like they had been hurt. All the com-links were buzzing with SWAT commands. LAPD was out in the open, moving for the door now that the victim was secured. And the black sedan, Mata's getaway car, had been reduced to a sizzling heap of twisted metal and fire.

"Are you guys all right?" Megan called, running over and helping them up.

"Yeah, we're okay," Don reassured her. "You got Ana Maria out?"

Megan nodded.

Don nodded back. "All right." He hit the power button on his headset. "All units move in!" he commanded over his link. "Emergency Protocol! Let's go!"

In seconds SWAT, uniformed LAPD, and the FBI had joined forces in the street. They rushed into the building _en masse_, hoping against hope that nothing else would explode while they were inside. This wasn't SOP, but there was no time to waste. If Mata had detonated that bomb remotely, he had to be stopped before he blew up something else.

They were creeping up the second floor stairs just behind the SWAT team when they heard it – a heavy argument in Spanish coming from just above them.

"Traitor, liar," Liz translated quietly, at the looks from her teammates. "That's Mata."

"He's yelling at Wear-o," Megan explained in a low voice. "Ana told me that his big 'faithful bodyguard' just turned on him. Guys, I think he's the one who called us. He must have driven them here from Rolling Hills and waited for his chance."

"Well, let's get in there and end this before they kill each other," David murmured. Don nodded in agreement.

"I'm gonna fuck you up, Fatso," Liz said suddenly. Everyone stared at her and she blushed. "Sorry. That's what our man is saying to Mata. And excuse me – _Wear-o_? Have I taught you nothing?" she jibed at Megan.

Don ignored this and got on the link. "SWAT, are you in position?"

"_Right outside the door_."

"A'right, do it. Everybody else stand back."

A fierce struggle erupted inside the room just then – bodies slamming against wood, shouts and grunts underscored the SWAT team's footsteps as they readied themselves in near silence. On their leader's count, they rammed the door open with a bang. The FBI and LAPD piled in behind them, weapons drawn. And everything went down in the blink of an eye.

The room was dark, which made it difficult to see what was going on, but the officers quickly noticed Mata by the far window, which looked out into the alley. He was leaning over what could only have been his former bodyguard.

Mata's leather jacket was riding up and revealing the gun holstered at his hip. He had pinned _Güero_ so that his opponent, struggling mightily beneath him and cussing him out in husky, crystal-clear Spanish, was dangling nearly out of the frame, unseen but certainly making himself heard. Nothing was keeping the other man inside the building but Mata's hands on his lapels and his own lower legs, splayed against the wall beneath the sill in a death grip.

"FBI! Freeze! Right where you are! Don't move!" Don shouted, pointing his weapon at Mata. He was backed up by his team and several LAPD officers, as well as SWAT.

It could have ended there. Mata could have given himself up, or maybe even hauled his captive back inside to use as a hostage for a few seconds until one of the SWAT snipers in the next building got a shot and took his head off. Of course, as is often the case with volatile situations, Murphy's Law was firmly in play. The shouting caused Mata to look up. The man on the bottom seized his chance. Nobody actually saw his hand snake out and grab Mata's gun but the aftermath of the gesture was impossible to miss.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The three shots were at center mass and Mata shook like a straw man with each one. He was finished. His knees went weak and he dropped to the ground, sagging against the other man's legs for a second and then going down on the floor with a death rattle. _Güero_ had made his last kill.

But the killer, in eliminating his target, had also just "weighed anchor," so to speak. There was now nothing to hold him inside the building. The lower legs scrambled for purchase, didn't find it, and disappeared as the man dropped out of sight with a startled yelp. Don raced for the window but wasn't fast enough to catch him; he could only lean out and watch as the man plunged into the alley, hurtling down like a rock for twenty feet, limbs flailing. He struck a heavy, clanging blow on the second floor fire escape, coming down squarely on one hip and letting out a cry of agony.

The collision inadvertently saved his life. Don stared in shock as the crash bounced the man towards the opposite wall. He tumbled through the air for a few more feet and landed on his side, heavily and loudly, in one of the open, nearly-full dumpsters of U-Bet-We-Shred. The impact sent up a flurry of confetti.

It took Don a couple of seconds to process what happened, but as soon as he did, he was on the move.

"We got him!" he yelled, tearing out of the room with his team hot on his heels.

"What about Mata?" the SWAT leader called after him.

"He took three in the chest!" Don shouted, making for the stairs. "He's a history project! Get the paramedics to meet us in the alley – our guy just landed in the trash!"

The SWAT leader got on the link to the paramedics and the FBI team thundered down the steps. They burst out into the balmy night and ran for the dumpsters, clicking on their flashlights to search, hearts pumping. They had definitely found their guy. If this man had been looking to take out Mata all along, he'd certainly done more than his job, eliminating other nasty pieces of work along the way. But he was also a murderer until otherwise proven, so they needed to arrest him. At the very least, the Bureau needed an explanation.

"He banged himself up pretty good on the fire escape," Don explained as they fanned out. "I think he landed in this one over here." He pointed to the dumpster at the end of the row.

The team started to move, heading towards the dumpsters to peek in. A sudden movement in the dumpster next to Don made him jump and back away. He shone his flashlight on it, the beam quickly joined by Megan's and David's. Something was bumping around in there, clanging against the metal. And then …

"Help…"

The cry was weak, but clear. Don's eyes went wide. "Oh, man. He's conscious. People, let's go!"

"Medic!" Megan shouted, accepting her boss's flashlight while he holstered his gun.

David did the same, handing his flashlight to Liz, and the two male agents vaulted themselves into the trash bin and began to carefully wade the through the chest-high container of shredded paper. (The last thing they wanted to do was step on someone they couldn't see.) The medics, who had re-parked the ambulance out in front of the alley, came jogging over with a gurney, bumping it over the cracked pavement. They parked next to Liz and Megan. While one set a backboard in position and readied a cervical collar, the other prepared to jump in after the agents.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Liz said, holding him back. "This guy is dangerous. Let us get him out and we'll help you secure him. Then you can treat him, okay?"

The EMT acquiesced. "All right."

After a few seconds of feeling around, Don won the prize. He caught hold of a flannel shirt and pulled, dragging a shadowy head topped by short, spiky hair and a set of broad shoulders above the surface of the trash.

He repositioned himself to get a better grip and called "Hey, I got him!" to David, who immediately waded over. The man, rather than protest, simply groaned and went limp in Don's arms, head hanging. "Ah, damn it," Don muttered.

"What?" David asked.

"He passed out. We'll have to get him out of here without his help. Get his legs, would you?"

"Yeah, sure."

Working together, grunting and straining, they hefted the paper-covered man out of the dumpster and gently handed him off to the paramedics, Megan and Liz, who worked as a four-man team to catch him. The paramedics set him on the gurney and immediately went to work, strapping him down to the backboard and putting a cervical collar in place; they had to assume a head injury. Everyone had done this dance before to some extent, which was good because they essentially had to do it in pitch darkness. Liz grabbed one of the man's wrists and handcuffed him to the gurney rail.

"Is that really necessary?" the lead medic asked.

"Yeah," she said.

The paramedics began to move with the gurney, going much more slowly and gently now that there was a live human aboard, babbling at each other about facial lacerations, a possible hip fracture and clucking about "resps." One of them strapped an oxygen mask over their patient's face. The FBI agents followed at a distance. Megan and Liz waited politely for Don and David to hop out of the dumpster. The men brushed shredded paper off their clothes and the four agents walked along together about ten paces behind the gurney.

They were all shuffling a little; the excitement was over, the adrenaline had played itself out. It was really late, or really early, and now they could take a break. They had their guy. The boring stuff – clearing the scene, getting back to the office, _maybe_ getting some sleep and straightening out the paperwork – was upon them. But at least there wouldn't be any more surprises for a little while.

The first medic ran ahead to start up the ambulance and the second medic tugged the gurney out of the alley and into the street, using the dip in the curb to keep the ride smooth. He was just opening the back door of the rig in preparation for loading as the agents approached under the flickering but acceptable streetlights.

Megan was leading the pack, with Liz right behind her. She was the first to stop near the parked gurney and the first to see the murderer's face, splotched red, white, and blue from the lights of the ambulance and their quarry's pale skin. The man had a black eye and a cut lip and a pert nose and …

Megan barely kept her exclamation of "Oh my God" under her breath. She was so shocked that she took a step backwards and Liz, who was really sort of done paying attention for the evening, slammed right into her and almost fell. Their little fender-bender attracted Don and David; the men hurried over. Everyone gathered around the gurney to stare down at the bruised and battered patient as the medics hurried to ready the ambulance. Even with the less-than-adequate lighting, his identity was unmistakable. The agents met each other's eyes in disbelief.

But there was no time to comment because the medics were pulling the gurney away, working in tandem to load the man into the rig and whisk him off to the hospital. The team stepped back to allow them some room and David swallowed hard, staring at the soles of the patient's shoes. One of the man's feet was leaning awkwardly to the left. Just as the gurney clicked into place and the first medic ran around to the front to drive, he found his voice.

"Where are you taking him?"

"USC," said the second medic, leaning over and grabbing for the interior latches of the doors.

Don nodded. The door closed and the ambulance took off, lights flashing. At a safe distance, the sirens kicked in. And still the FBI team remained on the curb, standing there in stunned silence. Two coroners ran into the building carrying a gurney and a body-bag for Mata, but nobody could spare them much attention.

"Was I hallucinating?" Megan finally asked, as soon as they were alone. "I mean, aside from like, the _worst_ blonde dye job I've ever seen in my life … was that or was that not Colby Granger?"

* * *

Note:

_La caída _(lah kah-EE-thah) means "The fall" – not the season, but a drop from a great height.

Before I forget, here is a quick note to all anonymous reviewers with questions (e.g. SMARTALIENQT). If you want me to answer your question, you must either provide an e-mail address or log in when you review. Otherwise, I cannot help you. Sorry.

I solemnly swear that I had this chapter's final scene thoroughly imagined at the end of August when I was blocking this story out. And yes, I have been laughing my ass off throughout the entire season watching Colby play Superman. Being inclined to silly explanations, I imagine this impulse of flinging himself off high objects started with an argument, which went something like this:

Some FBI Agent (angrily): Go take a flying leap, Granger!

Colby (cheerful and oblivious): Okay!

More is coming soon. We're nearing the end, folks.


	17. Diez y seis

**Chapter 1****6**: _Nunca le sorprenda a un agente federal en la oscuridad_

By 4 AM, the hustle and flow of law enforcement had slowed to a walk. CSI was on the scene and the coroners had long since dragged Pedro Mata's corpse out of the building and split for the morgue. They had him on a gurney but gurneys didn't do stairs well, so by the time the two-man team left they were cursing under their breath. The remaining LAPD units were getting ready to leave; one unlucky car had been dispatched earlier to follow the ambulance to the hospital and stay with the shooter. This was the FBI's collar, though. The deputy was under orders to call the Bureau the minute their guy woke up, and they'd arranged for a permanent guard for as long as the shooter was in the hospital. SWAT was packing it in out behind the convenience store, banging stuff around in the tactical van. The stomps and calls and the clang of weapons getting racked up echoed out into the cool night.

Don stood on the sidewalk in front of the complex with a battered clipboard and blearily finished signing some preliminary paperwork. He handed it off to a uniform, stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and glanced around. Megan and David were over by the car that had taken the brunt of the car bomb, talking to Ana Maria. They seemed to come to some agreement. The little girl nodded and took Megan's hand, and the three of them headed over, slowing down first so that Megan could help the little one step carefully off the high curb.

Don nodded at them as they crossed the silent street and met him. He was really tired and unsurprisingly having no success processing what he'd seen in the alley, so he put it out of his mind for a little bit, turning his head with interest at the click of low-heeled boots. Liz joined the group, peeling off latex gloves.

"So what's up guys, are we done here?" Don asked.

"Looks like it," said Megan. "David and I are going to take Ana Maria back to HQ, and then we'll see that Charlie and the others get home."

"They're still at the office?" Don asked incredulously.

"Well, they're waiting for word," Megan explained. "And I think they're helping to watch those kids from the raid. Anyway, there's some good news – a call came in during the um, the thing just now. The surgery was a success. Tomás is gonna make it."

"Hey, that's great," Don said quietly, genuinely pleased. He looked down at Ana Maria. "You hear that? Your papa's gonna be okay."

Ana Maria regarded him with solemn eyes and leaned against Megan's leg.

"I know," she said. "Megan told me. And she said that _Tío_ Pedro won't hurt anybody anymore." She yawned hugely and licked her lips.

The profiler bent down and picked Ana up, settling her on her hip. "Because why?" she prompted.

"Because he was a bad man, and _Güero_ made him go," she repeated obediently.

"Gold star," Megan said kindly. "You ready to hit the road, sweetie?"

Liz quietly snaked an arm around Don's waist. "Yeah, you want to go see mama and Isabel?"

"Uh huh," she murmured huskily, pressing the side of her face against Megan's shoulder. She was starting to fade. It had been a very long night for everybody.

"Okay, let's go," Megan said. "David, can you drive us?"

"Sure," he replied. "Don, what time tomorrow?"

Don considered how late/early it was and shrugged. "Noon?" That sounded reasonable. If they were all home by five then that gave them six good hours of sleep and a little time to wash up and get there.

David nodded. "'Kay."

He and Megan took off with Ana, leaving Don and Liz alone for a moment under the streetlamp. She hadn't moved her arm.

"Hey," she said. "So I think there's nothing more we can do here. We should beat it."

Don agreed. He was totally drained. "You wanna crash at my place?" Off her raised eyebrow he added, "It's, you know, it's closer to work than yours, is all."

"Mmm. Okay," she said finally. "But I'm driving, 'cuz you look like you're gonna fall asleep right here."

Without a word of protest, Don handed her his keys.

* * *

The first people David and Megan saw as they stepped off the elevator with Ana Maria were a frazzled Zulema and Isabel. They'd just gotten the news that Tomás was okay. Megan had called from the car to inform them that Pedro was dead and Ana Maria was safe, and Zulema told her that once they'd collected her then they would be setting out immediately for the hospital to see her husband, if there was no objection. The agency had someone keeping an eye on Tomás; there wasn't.

Zulema rushed forward wordlessly and accepted her sleepy daughter from Megan. "Thank you," she mouthed and walked away a few paces with her arms full of child, kissing her youngest on the cheek and jiggling her a little.

Megan nodded. She and David took Zulema's turned back as their cue and kept walking. "Mama!" they heard, followed by an equally joyous greeting of "Izzi!" and they shot each other identical exhausted grins as they walked into the bullpen. It was a rare day when things like this worked out so well.

* * *

Dawn broke, and the sun rose, and when it hit the center of the sky the agents on Don's team were just wandering into the office. Sleep had been a good idea all around. The bullpen was lit naturally from the windows, the fluorescents muted and useless. HQ was much quieter and calmer than they'd left it. INS had picked up all kids from the raid a little while ago and as intended, they had been transferred to the detention center at the last possible minute. They would be on a bus for home in a few hours.

Megan and David arrived at noon on the dot; they'd spent the night at Charlie's house with the CalSci team. Don and Liz walked in a few seconds behind them, talking quietly, and split up to go to their desks. Obviously they'd spent the night together too. Megan watched their interaction with interest.

Her eyes widened when she spotted a huge bruise on Liz's face just under her right eye, which the other woman had tried (without much success) to cover up with foundation. Then she looked at Don, who was glancing around shiftily and taking his seat.

Megan chewed on her lip. She'd wanted to talk to Liz a few hours ago when she'd apparently patched things up with Don, but now she _really_ had to sit the woman down because something was going on, and it clearly wasn't good. She just couldn't let Don know anything was up. In the interest of playing it cool, she leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms, luxuriating in the feeling of a rested body and a full stomach.

Spending the night at Charlie's had made sense. It was close and he was quick to extend the invitation. Taking five people in one car made sense too, because Amita had taken Charlie's Prius to get herself and Larry to the Bureau and after the insanity of the shift, Larry had offered to drive everyone home. Charlie was cool with them taking his ride, so they'd all shuffled out together. Megan had waited for the relative privacy of the street near the car to share the news.

"_So we got our guy, and you'll never believe who it is_." Charlie, Larry, and Amita were all ears. "_Colby_."

Mouths dropped open as they clambered into the Prius with Larry at the wheel. Everyone was baffled and started asking questions at once, but Megan held them off.

"_All I know is that we need to get some answers, but we won't until he wakes up. He fell three stories out a window; it was how we were able to catch him. He's in the hospital._"

That news really sobered the group and they were lost in their own thoughts, until Larry started driving. The physicist had never handled a Prius before – a little fact that he neglected to mention – and he lurched them along for five gut-churning minutes until Charlie, who was smashed into the back seat with David and Amita, demanded that he pull over. Larry meekly obeyed and switched places with the now thoroughly grumpy mathematician, who got them all home safely.

They reached the Craftsman and stumbled inside. David took off his shoes and passed out on the couch. Megan and Larry followed Charlie and Amita, and Charlie summoned his courage and checked on his father in the master suite (Amita had called Millie to stay over with him while everyone was at the Bureau.) He looked rather amusingly terrified of what he might find, but he nudged the door open and over his shoulder Megan could see that they were wearing night things and chastely asleep in bed together. (Charlie actually breathed a sigh of relief.) The two couples made their way upstairs, and sleep claimed them in minutes. Megan's alarm clock had come in the form of Larry playing with her hair and yummy smells wafting out of the kitchen.

She leaned back in her office chair and absently put a hand on her belly, feeling wonderful and smug because her stomach was full of pancakes, eggs, and fresh, well-made coffee. She'd really won the lottery this morning. Hoping her luck would hold, she glanced up. Don was typing up the beginnings of a report in-between sips of coffee and Liz was stretching her neck. She wouldn't get a better chance.

"Hey, Liz?" she called.

Liz looked up. (So did Don, a little suspiciously.) "Yeah?" she called back.

"Do you have your notes from the raid? I need to catalogue names of kids so I can send the list over to INS." She was well aware that Don's eyes were on them, but pretended not to notice.

"Sure," Liz said, grabbing her stack of administrative stuff and standing up. "Let's go in the break room."

"Perfect."

They walked off together and ducked into the break room, where they flopped down onto the chairs by the window and took out their stuff. Megan glanced up casually – Don had decided their interaction was innocent, and now he was back to working at his computer. Good.

"So what happened to your face?" she asked neutrally, pretending to look at her notes.

"Oh, Don hit me," Liz said, sounding totally bored.

Megan stared. "He _what_?"

Liz, realizing her tone had just increased Megan's anxiety, put out a hand. "I mean, it was a total accident. I – I did something really dumb. And he apologized afterwards. Like, way too much. The whole thing was just stupid."

Megan silently prompted her. Liz licked her lips and sighed.

"We um, we worked everything out while we were on the raid, and after the thing with Ana Maria, we crashed at his place. And we were just, ya know, passed-out on the bed, and everything was okay, and then I heard this frickin' _chainsaw_ next to my ear, and I woke up and looked over, and Don was snoring loud enough to rattle the roof."

That got a snort from Megan.

"Yeah. Anyway, I didn't want to wake him up, but I had to get some sleep too, so I went into the bathroom and he had a box of those 'breathe-right' strips. You know, those little springy nose thingies that make you stop snoring?"

Megan raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I know about those. I just can't believe Don snores."

"Well he doesn't normally, but when he gets really messed-up and sleep-deprived, oh yeah, it's like a bear. So anyway, I sneaked back into the bedroom and I had this idea that I could put one of the strips on him while he was asleep and not wake him up. So then –"

"Wait wait wait wait," Megan cut her off. "Hold on a minute. You're telling me that you tried to put something on the face of a sleeping FBI agent." She looked at her comrade with an incredulous expression. "Are you nuts? He could have killed you."

"Hey, it was 4:30 in the morning!" Liz protested. "I was coming down off the longest shift ever. I wasn't thinking straight. So yeah, I tried. Anyway, I got the strip on him, but he, um, he woke up in the middle and freaked out and creamed me. And then he realized what he did and he was like, 'Oh my God, are you okay?' And I was like, 'Yeah,' and then he apologized, _a lot_, and then he got me some ice." She looked rather miserable. "The end," she added.

"By Liz Warner," Megan said, grinning.

"Shut up. I told you it was stupid."

Megan rolled her eyes. "Mm hm. You are aware that within fifteen minutes, the whole office will be talking about how Don Eppes beats his woman."

Liz groaned theatrically. Just then Don sauntered in and headed over to the coffee. He poured himself a cup, turned and nodded at the two agents. "What say, gals?" he said quietly, playing it very casual.

Megan didn't buy it. "Don, it's okay. Liz told me what happened and I'll spread the word that you're not a wife-beater."

Don shot them an annoyed look. "I would never hit Liz on purpose. It was an accident!"

"In the bedroom," Liz said, and grinned. Megan and Don both looked at her and she added, "Whoa, it's true! Everything really _is_ funnier if you add 'in the bedroom!'"

There was a moment of silence, where Megan regarded Liz with crossed arms and glanced at her bemused boss with some worry.

"Don?" Megan said at last.

"Yeah?"

"Go."

"Done." He made a break for it.

* * *

Charlie stood on the front porch at noon with a cup of coffee, barefoot in pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt that said "As American as Apple Pi," waving goodbye with a pleasant if phony smile. Larry, Amita, and his father were still in the kitchen, talking over a late and leisurely breakfast. The FBI folk had split half an hour ago and now it was just them.

"Bye Millie," Charlie called, still waving as she drove off in her black hatchback. "Thanks for watching Dad!" he added as Amita came up beside him. "Try not to screw him again until at least next Tuesday!" he finished cheerfully, under his breath.

Amita gasped and swatted him on the arm. "Don't be disgusting," she scolded gently. He slipped an arm around her waist and toasted the departing hatchback with his mug, shooting the vehicle a snooty, irritated glance. "Oh c'mon, Charlie, can't you just be happy for your father?"

Charlie snorted. "Amita, she called their get-togethers 'physical therapy.'"

He took a sip of coffee and Amita tried to hold in a laugh. She couldn't quite do it, and Charlie looked at her like she had somehow betrayed him.

"Sorry. That's just funny. And you have to admit it – she's good for Alan."

Charlie lowered his mug and was silent for a moment, taking in Amita's ideas and factoring in reality against his own preconceived notions and fears. "Yeah, she is. I just kind of wish … you know, if Dad and Millie want some privacy, I'm wondering if this house is the best place for them. I mean, he _was_ talking about getting a condo, once upon a time."

"Yeah, well, we should cross that bridge when he's better," Amita pointed out. "Come on, you haven't eaten anything. I'll make you some eggs."

Charlie smiled at her. He allowed himself to be taken by the hand and led into the house.

* * *

The news came in at 1 PM.

"Eppes," Don said, securing the receiver between shoulder and ear as he typed. "He is? Great, I'm on my way. Thank – … What?" He listened, shaking his head in disbelief as the deputy on the other end repeated the facts. "Are you serious?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "All right, look, just stay at your post." He hung up and looked at his computer screen in a daze – it was a bit much to take in all at once.

According to the deputy, their guy was awake. A doctor had swung by and checked up on him – in addition to some bumps, bruises, cuts, and breaks (left leg and wrist), he had a minor concussion but seemed to be functioning all right. Barring any complications, he would be released from the hospital on Saturday.

It was the other two things the officer had said that didn't make any sense. First, the man had given his name as Clark Dawson, as opposed to Colby Granger. And when the deputy had informed him of his arrest by the FBI, he had demanded to speak with either Don Eppes or Megan Reeves, and beyond that he hadn't said a word.

Don sighed and hefted himself out of his chair. He was positive this Dawson character had his reasons for excluding Liz and David from the list of possible interrogators, but "Don Eppes _or_ Megan Reeves" was not a good idea. Without Don to hold her back, Megan would probably kick his ass. And without Megan's (relatively) stabilizing influence, Don would probably strangle the bastard – after he explained himself, of course.

It was much easier to just go together and keep each other in check. With that in mind, he walked over to Megan's cubicle and leaned over the clear wall.

"Hey, you want to come with me?" he asked quietly.

She looked up from the paperwork that littered her desk. "Where?"

"USC. Our uh, our 'mystery man' just woke up," he said, making finger quotes. "He's insisting his name is Clark Dawson, and he's asking for you and me. Nobody else."

Megan took off her reading glasses and grabbed her purse. "Let's roll."

Don nodded. They took off for the parking garage. Traffic wasn't too bad and they made it to the hospital in about twenty minutes, which Don used to explain to Megan exactly what the officer had told him – the injuries, the name, and the bizarre request. Megan mulled over the information and then said that the smartest thing they could do, at least for now, was to play along with what he wanted and see where it went from there. Don agreed.

The room was easy enough to spot – it was the one with chair outside, empty for the moment. Don stopped and looked at the handwritten sign: BACK IN FIVE MINUTES. He and Megan exchanged a look and Don checked the nurses' station for signs of life – nothing. They were pretty much alone in the hallway.

"What do you think?" he asked, as they pulled out their badges.

"I think we should get this over with," she said.

"Okay. You ready?"

"No."

Don smirked at her, practiced bravado substituting nicely for actual courage. "Ah, c'mon Reeves, what's he gonna do, bleed on you?"

"Oh, I might help him with that if he pisses me off," Megan warned.

"Hey, easy," he said. "Let's go."

They opened the door, took a good long look, and closed it behind them with mixed feelings.

Colby Granger (for lack of a better term) dozed under a few blankets. He was a mess. The head and foot of the hospital bed were both elevated to accommodate his injuries. He was hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor and his left arm, stabilized in a white cast from elbow to hand, rested on a pillow. Even from across the room they could see the band-aids on his face from where he'd cut himself, either during the fight with Pedro Mata or from his tumble into the dumpster. He had a monster of a cut on his left temple that had been stitched shut.

Don and Megan looked at each other to steady themselves and walked over to the side of the bed. Megan put her hands in her pockets and just stared, struggling to keep her face in check. Don took out his notepad. Determined to get through this and pretend it was just another interrogation, he rattled the bed rail. The clanging metal brought the patient around.

"Wake up, Mr. Dawson," Don said, keeping his tone professional.

The man in the bed made an "mmm" noise and managed to fix his sleepy eyes on Don, who tried not to acknowledge the injuries to the other man's face.

"I'm Agent Eppes with the FBI," Don continued. He felt a little stupid introducing himself to someone he clearly knew, but he pressed on. "And this is Agent Reeves," he said, gesturing to where Megan stood at the foot of the bed. "You've been arrested on murder charges. Do you understand that?"

The man nodded slowly.

"You asked to speak to us?"

The man nodded again.

"About what?"

The room was still. Megan watched as the man swallowed. "Is Pedro Mata really dead?" he asked finally, his familiar husky voice more husk than anything else.

"Yes he is," Megan said coldly.

The man nodded one last time, and then stared at Don and Megan with tears in his eyes. He looked incredibly relieved. "Good. Then it's all over. Listen, guys, I called you here … because I need to make a phone call."

Stranger and stranger. Don leaned over him slightly. "Who do you need to call?"

"My handler. The agency knows I got caught, and I think they know the mission is accomplished … but I can only get confirmation from him. And once I do, then I can tell you everything."

Megan's eyes grew wide. "What do you need?" she asked.

"Just one of your phones," he rasped. "And some water."

And for a moment, it was like he wasn't a perp. Don fumbled for his cell phone and Megan glided over to the nightstand which hovered near the bed, where she tipped the plastic cup right-side-up and poured him some water from the jug. The man managed a few sips and then rattled off a phone number to Don, who dialed it and held it up to the patient's ear.

They could only hear one end of the conversation, and it was bizarre – a mix of "yes sir" and "no sir" punctuated with code words and only a few bits that really made sense: a hopeful, almost amazed "I'm disavowed?" and "Well, that's my choice, isn't it?"

Finally the man nodded at Don, and the agent pulled the phone away. "Okay," the man said. He was a little less raspy after the water. "You guys are going to be getting a visit from the NSA about me, probably within a few hours. You should get back to the office. And I can tell you everything, but not here. It's too open."

Megan leaned on the bed. "Where?"

"I dunno," the man said. "Somewhere safe. When are they releasing me?"

"Saturday," Don replied. "You have someplace you can go when they let you out of here?"

The man looked a little uncertain. "Well, I don't know what happened to my apartment. I mean, I only paid the rent so far in advance."

Don sighed through his nose and looked at Megan in exasperation. They had to get answers.

"Okay, I have an idea," she said. She took out a pen and pulled the man's right hand out from under the blankets.

He scrunched his face as she wrote on his palm. "Hey, that tickles," he complained.

Don glared at him half-heartedly. "Shut up."

"Call this number the minute you're released," Megan said, letting go of his hand, and the man nodded. "We'll figure something out."

Don looked at her and shook his head in dismay. He'd had a sinking feeling about Megan's reaction. She was very compassionate, maybe too much so, and this just proved it. But she met his gaze with a stony look.

"We'll head back to the office and meet up with the NSA," she informed the patient.

"Yeah, and don't get out of the hospital and try to skip town or something stupid like that," Don ordered him. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

The man nodded. "Trust me, I'll do it."

Don snorted. "What makes you think I trust you, Granger?"

"Don, easy," Megan said, putting a hand on his arm. "Come on, let's go."

"Thanks, Megan," the man said as they walked away.

Megan turned and looked at him with an unreadable expression. "Just don't make us regret this."

* * *

Note:

This chapter's title, based on Liz's 4 AM stupidity, is a warning. It is pronounced "NOON-ka leh sor-PREN-thah ah ooh na-HEN-teh feh-theh-RALL en lah oh-skoo-ri-THAHD" and it means, "Never surprise a federal agent in the dark." 'Cuz seriously, that's just not a good idea.

As for the chapter itself – I thought this would be the last chapter, but the last chapter needed some set-up. So this is the set-up. :P Sorry. The last chapter is coming very shortly.


	18. Diez y siete

**Chapter 17**: _Mi casa es su casa_

The car doors of the Suburban slammed shut, echoing in the hospital parking garage. For a moment Don didn't move to put the key in the ignition. He and Megan looked at each other.

"Okay," Don began, "So…" He paused, trying to come up with a polite inquiry. He didn't find one and instead burst out, "What the fuck happened in there?"

"Don," Megan warned, keeping her voice patient and staring at the dashboard, as though she expected this.

"Don't. We walked in there – Look at me! – We walked in there with the idea of interrogating this guy. He gives us one sad look and we're suddenly helping him?"

"Don –"

"You wrote your phone number on his _hand_, Reeves. I mean seriously, did you leave your brain in the hallway?"

"Says the man who let a perp make a call on _his_ cell phone!" Megan shot back defensively.

Don glared at her in frustration. She had him. He groaned, thoroughly fed-up. "Some team we are."

"You're damn right, some team we are!" she snapped, and then let out a breath. "You really don't understand what happened, do you?"

Don scrunched his brow in confusion and turned the key. "I guess not," he grumbled as he put the SUV in reverse, looking over his shoulder to back out of the space.

Megan sighed. "We displayed trust in there. And that'll get us answers."

"But we _don't_ trust him," Don rebutted, putting the shift in drive and angling them towards the exit.

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it," she insisted with a smile. "We don't _have_ to. He just has to _think_ we do, which in turn will make him trust _us_, and the truth will come out." Don looked skeptical, so Megan pressed the point. "Look, he has to trust somebody. He's completely alone in whatever he was involved in."

"How do you figure that?"

"His reactions. It was classic 'rescued castaway' behavior. I mean, the look in his eyes…" She shook her head. "Don, he's been through hell. And he was so excited to see us, even though he was trying to hide it. I'm telling you, if we display good will and actually get him somewhere safe for a little while, he'll sing like a bird." She crossed her arms smugly.

Don glanced at her. "You're scary."

She grinned at him. "Boo. Drive."

* * *

They strode into the bullpen and exchanged clipped greetings with David and Liz, who were a little annoyed that half the team had vanished for almost an hour. They wanted to know where they'd been. Don opened his mouth to explain and instead jumped slightly – somebody had tapped him on the shoulder. He whipped around.

"Jesus, Charlie, don't do that."

"Sorry."

Don noticed that Larry was flanking him. "It's all right. What are you guys doing here?"

"Oh, the tech department called. They wanted me to take a look at one of their operating systems, but I can't find the liaison," said Charlie. "Larry's just tagging along. What's going on?"

Don sighed through his nose. Everybody kind of needed to know the score, and he really didn't need to tell the story more than once. So he herded them all into his cubicle and he and Megan explained what had happened at the hospital. By the end of the tale, a few mouths were hanging open.

"So the NSA will be stopping by?" Charlie asked.

"Any minute now, I've been told," Don said. "So listen up. We all have to pretend like we don't know anything if they ask us questions – we didn't go to the hospital, we didn't speak with him, we didn't hear anything, and we _certainly_ didn't offer to help him. And you two should beat it, because this already looks a little suspicious. Go."

Larry and Charlie nodded and took off immediately. The FBI agents faced each other in a square, looking from person to person. David crossed his arms and looked pensive.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

Don shrugged and tried to keep his voice neutral. "Like Megan said - we'll figure it out. You should all go back to your desks. When the rep gets here it has to look like business as usual."

His team split and Don sat down at his computer, where he went back to work on the report he'd been typing up about the case. He glared at the screen for a few minutes, stymied, until the sound of a throat clearing caused him to look up. A man about his own age with blond hair and blue eyes smiled at him over the clear rim of his cubicle.

"Agent Eppes?" he said.

"That's me," Don replied, standing up.

The newcomer had about three inches on him. "Gerald Tenbrook," he introduced himself, and they shook hands. "Legal counsel for the NSA. I've been asked to speak to you. You've been designated one of the lead investigators on the OCU case against Pedro Mata, correct?"

"Yes."

"And I understand you have a suspect in custody?"

"More or less. He was in pretty bad shape at the scene. The ambulance took him away before we could officially arrest him," Don invented. "He's in the hospital."

"So, you haven't actually seen him," Tenbrook clarified, speaking carefully.

Maybe too carefully, because there it was: the scale-tip. This guy definitely knew what was going on with Granger and he was probably being paid quite well to make sure nobody else found out the exact truth.

"Not yet, sir," Don lied blandly. "We were planning to question him later this afternoon."

"I see," Tenbrook said, seeming to relax. "Well, I need to speak to you about that suspect – in private."

"All right," Don conceded, playing dumb. "Why don't we speak in here?" He politely led the lawyer through the maze of cubicles and into an interrogation room. As he walked beside him, he exchanged a quick glance with his team. The meaning was clear.

As soon as the two men had entered the interrogation room and closed the door, Megan, Liz, and David all slipped away from their desks and crept into the small anteroom, turning on the little flat-screens and bringing up the sound.

Tenbrook and Don were facing each other across the table.

"… wasn't supposed to get caught," Tenbrook said.

Don leaned back, his image going a little grainy on the screen. He deliberately acted as though he had misunderstood.

"I'm pretty sure that was his idea too, considering he killed five people."

Tenbrook sighed. "Agent Eppes, you can't do this."

"Excuse me? Of course I can do this. It's my _job_ to do this."

"No, you don't understand. You can't do this because it's been prohibited."

Don snorted. "On what grounds?"

Tenbrook pursed his lips. "On the grounds that the man you have in custody is working for us. And once we get through with our report, all of the OCU's reports on the shootings of Pedro Mata and his employees will read 'shot by police.'"

"So … our perp is an undercover agent, working for you."

Tenbrook looked relieved. "Yes. So there's no need for you to continue investigating. I'll need all of your evidence."

Don put on the obligatory displeased expression. Apparently he did it well, because Tenbrook gave him a hard look.

"Agent, you can turn it over voluntarily, or I can get a court order. I'd really prefer that we resolve this quietly."

A neck-scratch and a moment later, Don nodded. "All right. I'll round up my team and we'll pool what we've got. How are we supposed to get it to you?"

That was not only a concession, but a clear signal to the agents on the other side of the glass - _scatter and hit your desks, people_. Only Don, who knew what little noises to listen for, heard them go while Tenbrook was explaining how he should hand over the evidence, and to whom he should deliver it.

"Oh, and one more thing," Tenbrook finished. "You are to have no contact with this man from here on out, either during his hospitalization or his release. It's a condition of his employment."

Don turned a bored expression on him, nodded and stood. Tenbrook, pleased at the cooperation, smiled politely and gathered his briefcase.

"Have a nice day."

* * *

The representative left and the team didn't even acknowledge him. They were busy looking busy and pretending nothing was amiss. Don sat down and also pretended to be absorbed in his work. Tenbrook pushed the button for the elevator and waited with a blank expression as it dinged and the door opened. He stepped in, turned to face the bullpen, and stood there calmly as the doors closed and the elevator started on its way down.

"He's gone," said Don, turning to face the other three agents, who immediately got up and came over.

Charlie and Larry appeared from around a corner and joined them.

"Hey," Charlie said. "So what happened?"

"This guy's claiming our guy is an undercover operative. We can't arrest him," said Don. "The NSA is prohibiting it," he added for Charlie's benefit, since he knew the others had been listening in.

"NSA? Really?"

Don shook his head. "That's just it. I don't know. I mean, this rep kept saying he's NSA, but I don't think so. He's too smooth – he's something else. Anyway, whatever agency he's with is handling the case, and OCU is handling the Mata angle."

"Sounds serious," Larry commented.

Charlie nodded in agreement. "So do we have any ideas on where to take Colby once he's out of the hospital?" He seemed just as eager as everyone else to get answers.

The little warning about 'no contact' flitted through Don's head, but he stifled it. "Well, my place is out," he said. "It's really small."

"My place could fit in Don's kitchen," Liz added.

"One bedroom in Venice," David explained.

"I've already got a roommate," Megan said, with a wink at Larry.

There was a pause, and then everyone turned as one and stared at Charlie, who looked slightly panicked when he realized what they were about to ask.

"He has nowhere to go, does he?" the mathematician asked in resignation.

Heads shook all around. "And he's too proud to admit it," Don said.

Charlie sighed. "Look, I hate to sound like a cold-hearted jerk, but we can't take him. The logistics…" He huffed. "The ground floor is a high-traffic area, so he won't have any peace and quiet if we set him up down there, and the guest room is on the second floor and based on your descriptions, I think we'd injure him if we tried to get him up the stairs. I'm sorry."

"You know," Larry said, shaking a finger, "I may have a solution."

The others all turned to him with interest.

"As you all are aware, I've been living with Megan for a while," the physicist continued. "However, as of late I have been experiencing a spatial dilemma, so two days ago – and this will be a surprise for Megan as well, as I haven't had the chance to tell her – I signed a six-month lease for an apartment in her building that's just down the hall from her domicile." Off Charlie's raised eyebrows, he continued. "I did it so that I can be on hand should the need for my presence arise, but I now have my own personal space to escape to should my need for solitude become too great. Mind you, the place is completely empty at present, but there are no stairs, and due to my meditation requirements I made sure to rent the quietest spot in the complex. I think it has potential."

"It _is_ an elegant solution," Charlie conceded with a shrug. "Plus, I think we're kind of out of ideas."

"Let's do it," Don said. "Larry, you let us know if there's anything we can help you with."

* * *

It wasn't until Friday afternoon, when Don picked up his end of the futon in the elevator, that he realized what he'd actually authorized: a move-in party at Larry Fleinhardt's new pad. At least, that's what they were all calling it. David had the other end of the couch, and they grunted and huffed their way across the little outdoor balcony of Megan's apartment complex, squinting from the sun. It was coming in pink and gold over the mountains.

So as not to go blind they stared at the floor of the balcony, crafted in matte orange tile with a delicate wrought-iron railing. It ran across the second floor of the place, an airy tan building with other pretty Spanish influences: a clay tile roof, a colorful mosaic in the central courtyard, and a small fountain. With only two levels and eight units total – each apartment got a corner – it blended in perfectly with the quiet, hilly suburban community in south Glendale, nestled next to the 134.

They were all here, so they told themselves, because Larry could use their assistance, and they had time. Things were winding down; the least they could do was help out an unofficial teammate by putting furniture in his apartment. Never mind that furnishing said apartment meant setting up a space for a much less savory individual – somebody who had been separately labeled a dead spy, a psychotic serial killer and an undercover agent, all in the space of forty-eight hours. Don shook his head. This was crazy. It broke all kinds of protocol, it was probably illegal, and now there were civilians involved in this mess. He didn't even want to think about the ramifications if something went wrong.

But the train was rolling full force now and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Megan and Amita were lugging in house things (towels and stuff for the bed), Liz was on a grocery run, Charlie and his ten thumbs were putting up curtains and Larry, against all of Don's exasperated warnings, was out purchasing some pajamas and other essentials for his "guest." Worse, Alan (to Don's consternation, no one had been able to keep him out of the loop) had invited everyone to the house for dinner that night, where he would no doubt make a play to come along with when they interrogated the guy on Saturday. Honestly, did _nobody_ see the danger here?

* * *

A yellow cab rolled to a stop outside the complex the next day, a little after eleven in the morning. The driver, a middle-aged Armenian guy with sleepy eyes and puffy jowls, put it in park. Over the blare of KRTH on his radio he regarded the tall woman waiting for him on the curb, dressed in nondescript sweats and a baseball cap. She turned towards the car and began to push a wheelchair over to the passenger door.

"Hi," she said when he rolled down his window.

"You are Sa-RAH?" he asked gruffly. "Guy in back say he meet house nurse name Sa-RAH," he explained. "Then he fall asleep."

Megan kept her smile firmly in place. "Yep, that's me. You wanna pop the back?"

"Yah, okay," the cabbie grunted. "You get him out of car. I don't…" He broke off to laugh and make jazz hands. "I don't trust me to do it!"

Megan smiled and mumbled "Me neither" under her breath. The cabbie fumbled for the lock mechanism, while indicating that she should take the big bag of medical supplies from the front passenger seat. She did, parking the bag next the wheelchair, and noticed that Colby was sitting up in the back with his left leg stretched out on the seat and his shoulders pressed against the right passenger window. He was sleepily coming around.

"Hey there," she said to him, smiling when he met her eyes and tried a smile of his own.

The lock popped. Megan opened the door and caught him as he tumbled out. It was a bit of a hassle to get him from the car to the wheelchair, and in the end the cabbie had to run around and help, but they finally got him settled with his feet in the kick plates.

"How much?" Megan asked.

"One hundred," the cabbie replied.

That was total robbery. Megan wanted the guy gone, though – every second out in the open was a risk. She handed him a crisp Franklin without a word, nodded goodbye, set the bag of supplies in Colby's lap and pushed her charge towards the gate of the complex. She only got a good look at him once she'd entered her code and they were waiting for the elevator to the second floor, and noticed he was dressed in cast-offs from the hospital; she wondered what sort of excuses he'd made about the fact that no one was bringing him clothes or picking him up, and that he was taking a cab home to meet a "nurse" that he'd hired.

By the time she stopped him in front of Larry's front door, he had fallen asleep again.

* * *

Note:

This chapter's title is pronounced "MEE KAH-sa ess SOO KAH-sah" and literally means, "My house is your house."

This is (obviously) not the last chapter. The last chapter was so big that I had to split it in half, thus the two-chapter post. But it's all here, promise. Just click that little "next" arrow. :D


	19. Diez y ocho

**Chapter 18**: _Cuentos de guerra_

Some time later, the man opened his eyes. A cool breeze played across his face as he stared at place where the ceiling met the wall and throbbed all over. The pain meds from the hospital had worn off, and he figured the throbbing was what had woken him up but paradoxically, he was comfortable – that boneless, really warm, not-getting-up-till-he-absolutely-had-to-pee kind of comfortable. He was on his back in bed, but propped up at an angle, which meant that he could probably heft himself up if he had to. Someone had elevated his broken left leg with lots of pillows and ditto with his left wrist, although it wasn't as high. A down comforter brushed his chin. He was alone.

Good. Alone was good. He turned his head slightly and glanced around the darkened room. To his left the window was open, which explained the breeze, and the sun was gone. The wall opposite was pretty close – the space was kind of small. To his right, there was a closed door. He looked back out the window and figured it was Saturday night; he couldn't have been asleep for that long, and he remembered something from this morning – a cab and Megan and some Armenian guy who stank of cigars and mint gum. Beyond that, it was kind of a blank.

A door opened to his right and he turned his head. Megan came in. She looked a little startled to see his eyes open and turned on the light. It didn't quite blind him, but it came close.

"Hey," she said. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," the man rasped, squinting. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yeah." It came out clearly, if not very strong.

She was at his side now. "Are you in pain?"

"Little bit," he said honestly.

"Okay," she said. "I'll get you some Tylenol. It's not much, but you need to be all here for this." She didn't even wait for a response, but left and came back with two tablets, a glass of water … and his social universe.

The man took the tablets with his shaky right hand, let Megan hold the glass of water up to his lips so he could swallow them in a gulp, and watched as the bedroom filled up with people he knew, people he'd betrayed. His heart fluttered. Here it was, the moment of truth. This was his jury, who would determine if he could stay or be thrown out. He knew the game. A safe place was not necessarily permanent; he could be chucked if they didn't like what he had to say.

Don, David, and Liz trooped in first. Don leaned against the wall and Liz stood next to him. David stood by the window. Then came Charlie, Amita, and Larry, all looking a little pensive, and they arranged themselves in a row. The last two people to come in were completely unexpected – Alan Eppes, on crutches, and Millie Finch, who drew out a chair for him to sit in. Megan slipped around to the left side of his bed and sat down just beyond his hand. They all regarded him silently, and he stared back, and for a moment nobody said anything.

"Okay, so let's get this over with," the man said at length. "Clearly everybody's as curious as cats, so how about you ask me questions and I'll answer them?"

"Fine," Don said, relieved that the first move had been made. "What's your name?"

"Clark Dawson." Off Don's skeptical look he felt obliged to add, "No, for real, that's actually my name."

"I thought your name was Colby Granger," Alan interrupted.

"Dad," Charlie said in a warning tone. Alan pursed his lips unhappily and was silent.

"All right well, if you're not Colby Granger, then who is he?" That accusatory question came from David.

Clark sighed. "Fellow soldier. We served together in Afghanistan."

"And can Colby Granger corroborate the fact that you've been impersonating him?"

"Colby Granger is dead," Clark snapped with some heat, "So, no. He was killed in action. Got taken out by an IED," he finished heavily, staring at the comforter. It was not a pleasant memory.

"Oh, were you two friends?" David asked with false sympathy. Don elbowed him.

"Ya know, ironically, he was kind of an asshole," Clark said, missing the exchange. "But we knew each other, yeah. We were in the same unit. 'Spud buds.' Ya know, two guys from Idaho. He was from Winchester and I'm from Priest River."

"So how did you end up impersonating him?" Liz asked.

"Well, Granger had been set up on a mission. A higher-up from a neighboring unit had a bad feeling about this marine, Dwayne Carter, and Granger had been doing something with CID, so he had the skills to investigate a fellow soldier. He was ordered to meet up with Carter, make friends with the guy and report on him, but he died two days before the meeting was supposed to happen. Anyway, the upshot is that Carter was expecting some guy who he'd never seen, so my CO took a look at my dossier and sent me instead."

"Why?"

Clark shrugged. "Similar backgrounds, I guess. I think the main thing is it was safe. Whatever happened, there was nobody to inform. See, Granger lost his folks when he was a teenager. I'm, um, I'm pretty much in the same boat. My dad left my mom and me, and she died when I was six." His flat tone caused a few raised eyebrows, but nobody interrupted. "Anyway, I took on Granger's identity so I could do his job, and I did it, and then there was that accident in the Humvee, and Dwayne was convinced we were friends for life – or at least that I owed him. I was pretty relieved to get out of Afghanistan, let me tell you."

"Whose idea was it for you to join the FBI?" Charlie inquired.

"Mine. I wanted out. But the army insisted that since I was going under an assumed name, I had to keep an eye on Dwayne. So when he came out west I put in for a transfer and joined your squad."

"And watching Dwayne was your only duty," Don said, obviously not buying it.

"Don, you gotta believe me, it was. I never reported on you guys – not once. I kept tabs on Dwayne and in between I was just an agent." He heaved a sigh. "Until Dwayne decided to step up the spying and got himself in shit up to his neck with the Chinese. I had to help him or else he'd figure me out, and then the Janus List … well, you know what happened."

"Okay," Megan said, taking this in. "But here's what I don't get – when they arrested you, why didn't you just explain what was going on? Why did you let them put you on trial? Hell, why didn't you appeal?"

"I was under orders not to break cover," he said tightly. "When they arrested me, this guy named Tenbrook – at least that's what he said his name was – approached me. He said he was NSA counsel, but I didn't buy it, so he came clean. He was really employed by this top secret agency, some deep cover group within the CIA. He said I could get myself out of this mess if I did a job for him. He needed somebody to take out Pedro Mata."

Eyebrows went up all around.

"See, Dwayne had gotten himself in trouble with Mata, and the whole can of alphabet soup was after him – FBI, NSA, CIA, everybody," Clark explained. "Tenbrook's group was after this guy because he was selling secrets – get this – through the kids he was bringing up from Mexico. They have these little implantable microchips now, and that was how Mata was trying to smuggle information."

"And the chip came with a free gift?" Megan said, trying and failing to hide her disgust.

"Yeah," Clark said, relieved that someone had understood the subtext so he didn't have to say it. "Oh man, when I heard that, I was like, 'let me at this son-of-a-bitch.' And Tenbrook, well, he told me that was exactly what he was going to do. I was a triple threat; I was familiar with the case from my work at the FBI, I knew about Mata from Carter, and I'm bilingual – Spanish – but I sure has hell don't look it, and that was my hook."

"All right. But why not just bust you out? Why fake your death?"

Clark sighed. "I needed a bullet-proof cover. Best way to do that was to 'kill' Colby Granger. So Tenbrook visited me at the end of July, and he told me to start a riot, like, _fast_, because the army was getting ready to put my ass on a plane for nowhere, if you know what I mean. He told me to just do it and they'd take care of the rest: erase my records, make sure I got my life back when it was over. So I did it."

"Did you know that Dwayne Carter died in the riot?" Don asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. Stupid bastard. He brought it on himself – I couldn't stop him. Is it terrible to say that I'm relieved he's gone?"

"It's understandable," Amita said quietly.

Megan kept it going. "So they brought in a make-up artist to make you look dead," she said, and when she got a nod from Clark, she added slyly, "And then you attacked your head with Nice n' Easy and took off after Mata."

Clark quirked a genuine smart-ass smile for the first time in months. "Hey. For the record, that make-up guy did it for me. I just … ya know … touched up my roots."

Megan laughed. "With what? Peroxide?"

"Hey, back on track, people," Don snapped, all business. Megan and Clark knocked it off. "Thank you. All right, so what the hell happened with Mata? Are you admitting that all the guys that died – that was all you?"

Clark held his gaze for a moment. "No. Well, yes, but not Villanueva. See, the mission started really simple. I just had to get Mata. And I was all set to nail him. He kept me around him all the time because he figured I didn't know what he was saying to his buddies in Spanish, and there were always drugs around, so it was real easy to nab some roofies. I had my plan. I was just gonna put the roofies in his drink, lay him down somewhere and shoot him, because no matter what anybody told me about my fingerprints disappearing, I knew I couldn't afford to leave any physical evidence."

He paused, lost in a recollection and his face lost a little color.

"And then everything spiraled out of control. I knew Villanueva was wearing a wire, so all I could do was to make sure my voice was never recorded." He shook his head in dismay.

"And then it all fell apart," David supplied. "Because Mata made him."

Clark nodded. "Alcarán killed him out behind Cabrillo's house. His big mistake was taking me with him. I had to watch." Charlie, who'd gotten up close and personal with that particular body, winced. "Villanueva gave up Moreno at the Bureau before he died, and I knew this was about to escalate, so I had to try and stop it. But Alcarán called Torres before I could kill him."

"And Torres?"

"Tracked him down, lulled him with some liquor and took his ass out," Clark said matter-of-factly. "He was a direct threat to the FBI. I just wish I had been fast enough to spare Moreno."

"From what?" Alan asked, ignoring the glare from Charlie.

"A letter bomb, Dad," Don said tiredly. "Remember when you and Charlie came home and we were in the living room, and there was all that blood on my shirt? That was his."

Alan paled and Clark asked, "Is he going to be okay?"

"He's recovering in San Antonio," Liz explained. "He'll be fine."

Clark nodded. "Good."

"What about Jimenez?" David asked. He was into the story by now.

Clark shook his head. "Well, when Mata got the news that Alcarán and Torres were dead, he basically just declared war on the FBI. He sent Jimenez to finish what Torres started, and I heard the order. I couldn't allow that, so I followed him to the hospital and killed him there. There was no time to be smooth about it. I think Moreno saw me. Hey, did that cop who got stabbed make it?"

Don shook his head "no" and Liz added, "Moreno only saw the back of your head."

"What happened with Trevino?" Megan asked.

"Oh man, Trevino was the devil," Clark said. "Mata couldn't get to Moreno, so he went after the people who were working with him – you guys. He put Trevino on it. So I went to Trevino's place, and he had all those surveillance photos up, and he was talking to me in Spanglish and showing me how Charlie was first, and he was just … gleeful." Charlie's eyes got big at this news – he hadn't been informed about the pictures. "That's what he was, he was _happy_," Clark went on, his face tightening. "And I … I just lost it. You guys already thought I'd played you. It was bad enough that I'd probably never see any of you again. I wasn't about to let you all die because of this mess. So I plugged him."

The agents and the CalSci folks looked at each other, wondering what to make of this admission.

"So, moving ahead," Megan said, clearing her throat, "Were you driving when Mata kidnapped Ana Maria?"

"Yeah. And then as soon as I could slip away for a second, I called with the location. I needed back-up."

"So that was you on the tipline," Don said. "And the raid?"

"That was me, too. I overheard a lot of stuff at those meetings, and I figured if I could keep you guys on site with other law enforcement, you might be able to stay safer. Now, you two," he said, motioning at David and Megan, "Were the wild card. When you showed up at the house, I was parked in the car outside. I didn't know what to do. I kind of wanted to run in there and help you. And then Mata came tearing out with Ana Maria and suddenly there wasn't much choice, ya know?"

"Yeah, but at least you got Ana Maria out," Megan argued. "What happened with that?"

"Oh, Mata was scaring her. I told him I'd calm her down, so I took her out into the building and I let her go."

"She … had a warning for us," she went on. "How did you know there was a bomb in Mata's car?"

"Overheard it from Torres – he built it for Mata as a last resort device. Mata always kept the remote in his pocket."

"Hmm. And then you shot Mata."

"Yeah. But … I know this sounds dumb, but I can't really remember how I got hurt. What happened to me?"

The agents looked at each other. Megan nominated Don. "You tell him," she said.

Don crossed his arms and regarded the man in the bed. "You fell out a window."

Clark's eyes widened.

"Three stories," Don added. "You did a little pirouette off a fire escape and landed in a trash can." He measured an inch with his forefinger and thumb. "You came _this close_ to getting killed. If your trajectory had been off … what was it, Charlie, one degree? Is that what you calculated?" Charlie nodded. "Yeah. One degree off and you would have hit cement."

The man blinked at him. "Whoa. Guess I got lucky, huh?"

Megan snorted. "You're just lucky that you landed in a dumpster for U-Bet-We-Shred and not the Sharp Pointy Things factory. Heck, you're lucky the dumpster was _open_. You could have landed on the lid of one of those things and broken your back, your neck … as it is, you banged yourself up pretty badly."

It was a bit much to take in. He decided to ask another question. "Where am I?"

"Nuh uh," Megan said. "You know how this works. You don't get to find out until we determine that you can stay."

"Yeah, don't get too comfortable," Don said. "Come on, everybody."

* * *

The assembled shuffled out into the living room and closed the door to the bedroom behind them.

"All right, so I've heard some crazy stories in my time," Don began, "But that's definitely in the top ten."

"Question is, is it the truth?" David asked.

That stopped the room cold. They were all looking at each other with the same expression, and it was clear that David had voiced what everyone else had been thinking.

Then Alan spoke up. "You know what? I don't care if it's a lie. Although personally, I think he's being honest," he continued, buoyed by a nod from Megan.

"Dad –" Don objected.

"Don, no," Alan cut him off. "Look. The measure of a man is not how he behaves when life is all roses – it's how he behaves in a crisis. I don't care if you don't believe Clark's words. Look at his actions."

Don was frustrated. "Dad, there's nobody who can corroborate his story. And I don't know if you missed it, but he _killed_ people."

"Yeah, in defense of everyone in this room," Alan snapped. "He was undercover for two years, working a dangerous gig, and yet, in that entire time he did nothing to hurt any of you, even though he _could_ have very easily. And, wait a minute, and as soon as he realized that people wanted to hurt you, he stopped them – at great personal risk. He didn't do it for financial gain, or, or recognition, or because somebody ordered him. He could have just kept his head down while you all got killed by this nutcase's minions and still collected on whatever he was promised for killing Mata. But he didn't. He saved your lives. And he needs our help – because in case _you_ missed it, he's got nobody else."

There was a moment of silence as all of this sank in. David looked to be struggling with himself. Don and Liz seemed to be coming to the same conclusion as Megan – a story like that just couldn't be made up, and what this man had done… Charlie, Larry, and Amita nodded at each other. Millie squeezed Alan's shoulders in support.

* * *

The door opened and Clark looked up nervously as they crowded back into the room. Don, Liz, David, and Charlie came in, leaving the others outside. They regarded him calmly, their faces giving nothing away, although he knew a decision had been made about him. He felt vaguely like a Roman gladiator, waiting for the thumbs-up or the thumbs-down, as he searched their faces desperately for a sign. Nothing. And just as Megan entered the room and closed the door behind her, he figured it out.

That was their answer. Nothing. No. Never.

Well, after all the deception, what did he expect? He sighed and squirmed, tried to get up, and made it about half a foot before Megan darted over and pushed him back down.

"What are you doing?" she scolded.

"Going," he said simply, dejected.

She scoffed. "Are you nuts? No. You're staying right here until you've healed."

The silence was thick as they stared at each other, she with a mild expression, he with eyes that had seen too much. Finally he found the nerve to ask his question, and he floated it like a delicate balloon. It wouldn't take much to pop it, or destroy him.

"You mean … you believe me?"

Megan nodded slightly. He stared again, cataloguing her look the way a rescued person memorizes the details of his rescuer's face. After all the hell he'd been forced to wreak on his friends, it looked like an ember of affection was still burning. He slumped in relief.

Megan managed a little smile. "Well, I mean, you need to give the believing some time," she said, taking his hand. "For now though, all you need to know is that we like you. A lot." And then, unable to stop herself, she added, "Like, _a lot_ a lot."

David, Charlie, and Liz looked slightly amused, although it took Clark, who was still busy being amazed that he hadn't totally blown it with these people, a second to catch on. But when he did his eyes got wide, he groaned, and he tried to hide under the covers.

Don, getting the joke a second too late, let loose a slow-burn grin that took over his whole face and made his eyes crinkle. He looked down in an effort to compose himself.

"Oh, my God," Clark moaned. "You read my _letters_? Aw, jeez –"

"Out loud," Megan needled him. "To each other. In the cemetery."

Clark looked ready to die of embarrassment. "Oh, no. Guys, look. I … I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I just, I had to say it, and – " He was babbling, panicking.

"Whoa, take it easy," Don said, coming up on his left.

David snorted, but there was no malice behind it. "Yeah, chill, man. It's not so simple to get rid of us. We're still here."

Clark met his eyes, managed to contain himself again, and smiled. "Yeah, you are."

"Hey, so who put the marker in the cemetery, anyway?" Charlie asked. "Was it you?"

Clark nodded, a little solemn. "Yeah, I put in the order. Look, Granger might have been kind of a prick, but when everything went fubar with Dwayne, I knew an innocent man's name was gonna be dragged through the mud. I mean, hell, somebody had to stand up for him. He was a good soldier. He deserved a place in that cemetery."

"There was something on the marker, though," Don said. "It started with a 'c,' but I don't remember what it was."

"_Canta y no llores_," Clark supplied, with perfect pronunciation. "It's a lyric. It's from, um, '_Cielito Lindo_' – that's a little folk tune."

"What does it translate as?" Megan asked.

"Sing and don't cry," he said quietly. He looked down and picked at the bedcover, so he didn't catch the looks between the agents and Charlie. "That's just the literal translation. What it really means is, have hope. Chin up. You'll be all right."

"That's a good thing to put on a stone," Don commented.

"It's what I muttered under my breath every day," Clark said. "Helped get me through. Thank God it's over."

"You really think it's done?" Liz asked him.

"Well, I'm done with the undercover stuff. The agency disavowed me."

"Yeah, but what are you going to do now? Your cover is gone. You have no resources. I think Granger's accounts all froze at the beginning of August," Liz pointed out.

"They did," Clark agreed. "But it's actually okay. See, um, when the army had me replace Granger, they had the real me listed as finishing my tour and working at a desk job in Washington, collecting a paycheck. So I've been working as Granger, using my FBI pay to get by, but my compensation for doing this gig is six years worth of a salary that I haven't touched. So I have a clean record, Colby Granger has been erased from the FBI, and … I guess I can start over."

"Like, WITSEC start over, or …?" David asked.

Clark looked at them uncertainly. "Well, I was hoping to stay in L.A."

"What are you going to do?" Megan asked quietly.

"Um," Clark said, quirking his lip a little, "I've always wanted to teach Spanish, believe it or not. That's what my degree is in, so…" He trailed off. "Anyway, I figure once I can hobble around I'll get out of your hair. You know, find a place, get a job. Try out this teaching thing and see how I like it. Maybe do the credential program at SUELA so I can teach high school."

Liz raised an eyebrow. "SUELA?"

"Yeah, the uh, the State University of Eastern Los Angeles. It's supposed to have a good program."

"Oh."

Megan smiled. "And … you don't think anyone's going to come after you, after what you did to Mata."

Clark shrugged. "I'll be careful. I always am. But no, I don't think so. See, his friends are mostly history, and he made the 'Mafia' mistake – he involved his family in his business, and he used his business to control his family. And _boy_ did the Cabrillos hate him for it. Did they end up helping you out?" he asked, and yawned.

Don picked up on his tiredness immediately. "Yeah," he said. "As did you, Dawson. So thanks." Clark nodded. "Get some sleep, all right? Rest up. We'll be by in a few days." He started shooing everyone out of the room.

"Keep in touch once you're better," Charlie said on his way out. "Who knows? We might need you to consult on something."

"Oh yeah, that's just what this team needs," Clark teased kindly. "Another teacher."

* * *

Note:

So there you have it. I hereby bestow mad points upon PoetTraveler, whose predictions about the resolution of this tale were _almost_ right, and to all the "true believers" who literally never said "die." But let it be known that I didn't lie. I said Colby Granger was dead, and he was – just not like you thought.

This chapter's title is pronounced "KWEN-tos theh GEH-rah." Taken from Clark's wild tale, it means, "War Stories." The epilogue is coming soon. :)


	20. Epílogo

**Epilogue:** _Canta y no llores_

Saturday, June 21st, 2008.

It was the first day of summer by the calendar, and while that rarely coincided with the weather, the southland had escaped "June gloom" this year and it was beautiful – light breezes, clear skies, green grass and no school. Most families had either left for summer vacation by this point or were preparing their children for day camps and summer enrichment.

One particular household in Rolling Hills was celebrating the end of the school year – and a lot more – with a digital camera before they went out to dinner.

"_Querido_, hurry up before Diego does you-know-what!" Zulema yelled across the backyard.

"Yeah, Papi, come on!" Ana Maria called from her perch. She grinned down at Isabel, who was standing on the packed earth in front of the newly-rebuilt stable, content to pet Diego's nose for the moment. The older Cabrillo daughter had allowed her younger sister to have the first picture.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!"

Tomás Cabrillo jogged across the leveled and trimmed yard with his equipment, hardly breaking a sweat. Pepe, wagging his tail and yipping excitedly, was at his heels the whole way – the rescued German shepherd mix loved shiny technological objects almost as much as Tomás, as Zulema liked to joke. The dog turned his head at Zulema's whistle and trotted over to her. She pointed at the ground and he obediently flumped down on his rump in the grass, content to watch the goings-on while panting and lolling his tongue.

The Cabrillo patriarch stopped a few feet away. He kicked out the legs of the tripod, popped the camera on top and trained it on Ana Maria, where she sat in the saddle of their family's latest addition: a spotted pony. The girls had been begging for a few years now, the timing was right, and the ASPCA had what they wanted. They had just started riding lessons. And while Diego had a gentle gait and a wonderful disposition, Zulema's comment about "you-know-what" was no idle threat. He had already proven to be a lot of work in that regard. Tomás focused fast.

"Okay, here it goes … Ready? Three! Two! One!"

The flash went off and Tomás checked the picture on the screen. Diego was looking at the camera curiously and Ana Maria, riding atop him, was all smiles. She had a giant gap where her front teeth had been until a few weeks ago.

As Isabel helped Ana Maria down so she could change places and he got ready to take a few more shots, Tomás absently scratched a little itch on his chest. A two-inch scar was all that remained of his encounter with Pedro last August, the one that had nearly taken his life. He ended up in the hospital for a week and was unable to return to work for a month, but he'd never been so glad to wake up and see his wife and girls, and the news they had – that Pedro was dead, that they didn't have to worry about him anymore – it was like someone had lifted a cinderblock off his shoulders. He stood straighter now.

"Isabel, are you ready?"

"Yeah, I'm ready!"

He took another picture and stole a glimpse at his wife. Zulema stood straighter now too. She was a different woman without her brother looming over her. In fact, her first idea, once Tomás had gone back to work, was that they make some home improvements, because she wanted the inside of the house to match the outside. Gone were the silly sign and hideous "old west" façade, replaced by elegant landscaping, a cobbled footpath and a front done in white-gray stone. The stable was done and now had a happy occupant. Best of all, the money for all this was theirs. Tomás's hard work at the college had paid off. An aging full-time professor was retiring, so the department had started a search for a replacement and Tomás, on the basis of his outstanding teaching and writing, had proved to the hiring committee that they didn't need to look any further than one of their own part-timers.

"Okay, let's do a group one!" he said, focusing the camera and praying Diego wouldn't wander off or let fly. "Quick, come on!" he called to Zulema. "We have fifteen seconds!"

It was chaos as they arranged themselves around the pony. Ana Maria and Isabel giggled and tried to figure out how to share the saddle, Tomás and Zulema stood in front of the girls' legs, and Pepe fidgeted and snuffled until Zulema got him to sit again. The light on the camera started flashing really fast. It was about to go.

"Everybody smile!" Tomás said. He threw an arm around his happily surprised wife and the flash went off.

* * *

Andi Moreno stared at his laptop and blew out a breath. It wasn't that he had no idea what he wanted to write, it was just the phrasing that was hard. A fly buzzed in his ear and he lazily brushed it away. San Antonio in the summer was hot and kind of sticky, but he'd played his cards right today. He was lounging on a couch on the netted back porch – _his_ back porch; he'd just bought this funky old Victorian in the King William neighborhood two months ago – with a cold beer and wireless internet. He was alone for the moment, because if he knew Cici (and he did) she was sobbing in the kitchen before coming out to see him again. 

"_Dear Liz_," he tapped out, hunting and pecking. "_I did what you said, and you were right. She said yes! I have to tell Mama and Dad, but they're away for the weekend, so I'll have to wait until they get back. But I'm getting married, and I couldn't wait to tell you. Love, Andi_." He read it over and took a swig of beer as he waited for Cici to come out again.

The last time he'd actually spoken to Liz in person had been on the phone last year in September. Pedro Mata was dead, she said, and while it turned out that _Güero_ was working undercover for the federal government and they obviously couldn't arrest him, the whole organization had been blown, key players taken out, and it was rapidly falling apart. He remembered the weirdest little things about the call. He'd been resting in bed with the phone to his ear and his hand shook so hard at the news that he dropped the receiver into the folds of the comforter and it took him a minute to find it. Liz had sent e-mails since with updates on the case: raids that cleared out the last known associates, big arrests, etc. It had always been positive news. He figured he might as well return the favor. San Anto had been good to him – he'd taken a position with the field office and had a house (and now a fiancée) to show for it.

Just then, the screen door squeaked and Agent Cecilia Hernandez came barreling out. Even in her grubby weekend clothes she was a knockout – tall, lean and tan. At work she was professional, up one cubicle and over two. At home she was funny with a ready smile. And now she was engaged. Her mascara was a mess and a diamond glittered brilliantly on her finger. Without a word, she planted one on his lips and pulled back.

"I love you," she said simply and firmly. "We should stay in tonight."

Andi nodded with a grin. That was Cici – passionate and direct. She got up and walked back into the house, leaving him out on the porch. He looked back at his e-mail, realizing he hadn't sent it. So he added his phone number and one last sentence:

"_PS: Call me at your convenience_."

* * *

At the moment that Andi sent the e-mail, Liz was on the road, sitting pretty in the passenger seat of Don's Suburban with her fingers laced over her belly. Don was driving and the back seat was taken up with a massive cooler. The sun was nearing the horizon, lighting up the sky with pinks and reds as they drove carefully up the wide, tree-lined street in eastern Pasadena. She looked down at herself, unable to help her nervous grin. There was absolutely no hiding it anymore. Between the glow, the expanding tummy and the flats, people were talking like crazy at the office. Don had shot them all down with "the look" and she'd done the same because it was really nobody's business, but it was bound to be a surprise to their host. She glanced at her chauffeur in profile. His aviator sunglasses were glinting in the warm light and that green t-shirt she'd bought him a few weeks ago was stretched very nicely under a light jacket. 

"Hey, what's the address again?" Don asked, as they hung a right onto Paloma Street. "I can't remember the number."

"Um …" Liz fished in her bag and came up with a scrap of paper. "Twenty-six thirteen," she read. Don started to hunt for the numbers painted on the curbs. "Everybody's coming?"

"That's the word on the street," Don said, squinting into the distance. "Although David's probably gonna be a little late. You know the traffic from Venice." He shook his head. "I keep telling him he should move, but he's just so stuck on it."

"Well, he likes the area," Liz gently defended him. "He'll move when he's ready."

"Yeah, I guess so." They paused for the stop sign and Don shot her a calculating, mischievous look. "What's up with you?"

"There's nothing up with me," she said, a little surprised that he'd picked up on her nervousness, and wondered if he'd seen her stare.

"Yes there is … you're too quiet. What is it?"

So she seized her chance, gripping the collar of that brand-new shirt and pulling a wide-eyed, surprised Fed over the center console for a kiss. It was a good thing Don had his foot on the brake. She broke off and grinned cheekily at him.

"That," she said.

Don licked his lips, hid his elevated heart rate well enough, and nodded sagely. "All right, I'll take that."

They rolled through the intersection.

* * *

"God, she's worse than Margaret," Alan muttered to himself, checking his watch. He walked over to the bottom of the half-flight of stairs and called, "Millie! What are you waiting for … Godot? We gotta get outta here!" 

There was a laugh from the bathroom. "I'm coming, Alan!"

Alan rolled his eyes. Millie had said the same thing ten minutes ago, but if she didn't get a move-on then they'd be late for the party. He strolled around the airy living room, wandering by the contemporary sofa set and side-stepping the plush rug, and looked out the giant front window at the spectacular view. This hilltop condo in Silverlake had run him a pretty penny, but thanks to Charlie's purchase of the Craftsman a few years ago and his consulting business taking a successful turn, it had all worked out. He'd bought the place in January. Millie had been a regular visitor ever since.

The click of heels announced her approach and Alan turned around.

"All right, let's get this show on the road," Millie said around the bobby pin in her mouth. She hitched up her bra strap under her sundress, snagged her bag off the couch and stuck the final pin somewhere in her up-do. The light was hitting her just so, and Alan blinked. For a second, he was at a loss for words.

"You um … you look lovely," he said, stepping over to admire her. "Shall we?"

Millie smiled. "Sure. Where's the potato salad?"

One of the many good things Alan could say about Millie was that she remembered stuff that he tended to forget when he was looking at her.

"Ya see, I knew I forgot something. It's in the kitchen," he said. "I'll go get it."

* * *

"Charlie, come on!" Amita called from where she waited in the driveway. "My hands are freezing!" 

"Sorry, sorry," Charlie returned, coming out the front door of the house and locking it behind him, balancing a cardboard box full of glass bottles – juices and liquor – on one knee. "I had to make sure the computer was off."

He pointed his remote at the Prius and unlocked it. Amita, who was holding a giant bag of ice, immediately opened the back door and flung it onto the seat. She started shaking out her arms as Charlie added the clanking box.

"And here I thought that would feel _good_," she grumbled, brushing some stray bits of condensation off her dress. "It's been so hot lately."

Charlie, who was staring at her red dress, murmured "Not half as hot as you."

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," he sing-songed, jogging around to the drivers' side. Amita rolled her eyes with good humor and opened the passenger door.

* * *

At seven o'clock an Acura parked on Paloma Street and Megan and Larry climbed out. She looked like a swan in her white sundress and Larry was dressed casually in shorts, a shirt, and (Megan had been unable to dissuade him), sandals with socks. A car door slammed across the street. The neighborhood was hopping; about six doors down a large party was in full swing, so a few more cars wouldn't be noticed. Megan spotted Don's car, Charlie's Prius, and Millie's hatchback a little bit up the road. Larry pulled out their contribution to the festivities (chips, dips, and salsa) from the back seat as David crossed over to them, looking very relaxed in tan pants and a white linen shirt, bearing something yummy. It was hiding under a domed cover. Megan had expected a certain pretty medical examiner to be riding with him, but he was alone. 

"Hey, Miami Vice, what's up?" she greeted him with a smile. "Where's Claudia?"

David grinned at her little jab and shook his head. "Ah, she couldn't make it. She had a family thing out-of-state. So it's just me tonight."

Megan nodded. "Need any help, or is this it?" she asked, motioning at what he held.

"Nope, I've got it," he said. "Let's go. Hi, Larry."

"Hello, David," the physicist returned cheerfully, wrestling with a particularly slippery bag of chips. Megan caught one of the salsas before he lost it, and took the homemade onion dip too as a precaution.

Cars locked and armed with food, they marched up the long walkway from the street and up the single step to the porch. The house was a nice little brick number with a pretty oak door, colorful flowerbeds, big front windows, and a well-trimmed lawn. A large, lovely old tree in the yard shaded the facade nicely.

Megan rang the bell and looked around appreciatively.

"So this is what severance pay buys you," she said. "Not too bad."

"I'd say on the whole, he deserves it," David said.

"True," she replied.

Locks fell away on the inside and the door opened. A man, as nicely dressed as they were, gave them a shy smile. His familiar face looked slightly angular under his natural brown hair and his hazel eyes were sparkling.

"Hi," he said. "Come on in."

He ushered them into the foyer and closed the door. Megan immediately put down the dips and threw her arms around him for a second, finally stepping back to give David some room. He greeted Clark like an old friend while Larry and Megan looked around, and Megan again nodded in approval – Clark's decorating sense was pretty good. She'd expected to see a larger version of his bachelor pad, but everything was clean and masculine and most of it actually matched. She was impressed.

"Make yourselves at home, guys," Clark said.

"Okay," Megan replied, and kicked off her high-heeled sandals, getting a smile from her host. She stood barefoot on the plush carpet, a dopey smile ticking onto her face.

"Hey, I thought I heard something out here!" Alan greeted them as he walked into the entryway. "Glad you all made it. Don and Charlie are out back with the barbecue, and Millie is um … supervising."

"Where should we put the food, Alan?" Larry asked.

"Oh, outside. Come on, follow me."

"Yay," Megan said, juggling the dips, snagging her slingbacks, and trailing Larry and David through the polished wood kitchen. "I can't wait to eat. What do you guys have cooking out there?"

"Go see for yourself," Alan said mischievously, pointing them at the screen door that led to the backyard.

Clark watched them go and smiled. He'd started teaching at Rose High in November when a sick teacher had been forced to resign, and he'd kept it up all the way through June. His first year had been a mixed bag, and he wasn't at all sure about a second, but at least his life was finally on track. The army had honorably discharged him in January and he used most of his savings to get this little house in the bag. April had been a very good month. He'd wanted to have a small party then, but the team had been in the middle of a case and he'd been in the middle of the semester.

There was nothing stopping them now, though. He followed Megan through the kitchen and out the screen door to the backyard, a tiny shaded paradise. It was one of the main reasons he'd settled on this house. Under one string of lights - miniature hanging lanterns of hammered copper - there was a barbecue (being manned by the Eppes brothers). The opposite side held a very small swimming pool (under construction) and in the middle a picnic table was set for ten, where Alan and Liz were making themselves comfortable while Amita got the punch ready. Best of all, the yard sported high trees on all sides, hiding everything from neighbors' prying eyes.

Millie looked up from her lounge chair, sipped her drink, and waved at the new arrivals. "Hi everybody," she said cheerfully.

David and Megan greeted her as they set down their food on a table near the grill, which was already packed with barbecue fixings and plastic service ware, and wandered over to the table and barbecue to say hi to everyone else.

"Hey Larry, nice socks," Millie giggled.

Larry looked down. "Oh my, have I committed a fashion faux pas? Should I have only worn sandals?"

"Eh, just take it all off and get your feet green," Alan said from the table.

"Yeah, see? The grass is nice!" Megan said, and wiggled her now verdant toes at him.

"Larry, can I get you something? A beer?" Charlie asked from where he stood sentry at the grill.

"Ice water, please," Larry said calmly. He sat down right there on the grass, took off his shoes and sandals, and grinned at Megan, who smiled back.

"Okay, who's ready to eat?" Don asked, stepping over. He dusted his hands on a sauce-smeared apron. "We've got steak and chicken going, but Charlie can throw on some hotdogs if anybody's interested." Charlie nodded his assent.

The whole party put in their orders. After a leisurely dinner and spectacular dessert (it turned out David had brought lemon cake) they were all pleasantly full, leaning back from the picnic table, talking and laughing over drinks and cocktails. Soft music was playing on a small radio near the barbecue, and some candles on the table kept the darkness at bay, flickering warm light on everyone's faces.

" … And they never asked me to coach track again," Clark finished. "Which was probably a good thing, cuz man … wow."

The party laughed.

"So on the whole, how was your school year?" Don asked, sipping his Bohemia.

He only asked because the team hadn't completely ignored Tenbrook's warning. After Clark was well enough to leave Larry's place and find a rental and a job, they'd only been in touch a few times. In fact, that was one of the things that had prompted this party – they had a weekend off, he was through for the year, and everybody wanted to see how everybody else was doing.

"Well, in all honesty, I'm glad it's over," Clark said. He took a sip of his watermelon mojito, delightfully melty and half-finished. "I kind of wanted to kill myself in the middle."

That comment got a few grins and a snort from Megan. "What? Why? I thought you wanted to teach."

"Oh, I did too. See, it's not the kids," he explained. "The kids, for the most part, are great. And it's not the subject. I love the subject."

"So what is it?"

Clark sighed. "The pay sucks, the hours blow, all the school materials are out-of-date … what else? Oh yeah, my principal is out to get me. And the program at SUELA? Man, talk about soul-sucking. I've been going part-time. See, the school let me in with the CBEST on the condition that I get my credential, so I've been working on that, but…" He broke off and shuddered. "It's gross. It's _so_ gross. It makes Quantico look like a walk in the park."

Most of the assembled laughed. Megan scratched an itch on her shoulder and eyed Don. Don looked around at the gathered party, exchanging a look with Megan, David, and Liz, who delicately sipped her virgin piña colada. A slight nod from her was all it took.

"So … are you going back next year?" Don asked carefully.

Clark shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, on the one hand I'm not having a good time, but on the other hand, I don't want to become a statistic."

"What statistic is that?" Charlie asked, perking up at the mention of math.

"New teachers in California," Clark said. "One in three quits after the first year. Don, why do you ask?"

Don plowed ahead. "Well, I was just … um … well look, we've all had a lot of time to cool off and think about stuff since last August," he began. "And I don't know if you noticed, but the team is gonna be short an agent pretty soon."

That was a heck of a way to put it. Megan smiled and Liz laughed outright.

"What Don means is that he knocked me up, so I won't be in the field for a while."

Everybody laughed except Don, who made a show of crossing his arms and not looking at her. She threw an arm around him and he dropped the act. They had all noticed Liz's pregnancy of course, and Clark had been particularly delighted to see her waddling up to the house.

"Yeah, I figured that out," Clark said. "So Don, you uh, you _do_ know that you're supposed to marry the girl and _then_ get her pregnant, right?" he asked with a sly look.

"Oh shut up," Don lobbed at him, but without any heat.

"We did in fact explain this to him, Clark," Alan said with great authority, belied by a wink and a grin as he sipped his margarita. The former engineer had clearly worked out an equation with regards to his eldest son, and it was plain that as long as 'x' equalled grandchildren, he didn't give a hoot about the order of operations. "Went right over his head."

Millie snorted into her own margarita, and the rest of the assembled tried to hide their amusement with their drinks.

"Dad," Don warned.

"_Anyway_," David said pointedly, catching everyone's attention, "We can probably back-date most of your Quantico stuff. It would be a lot of paperwork, and make no mistake, most of it'll be on you … but it could be done."

And Clark snapped back to the here-and-now. He blinked at them. "Wait a minute. Are you asking what I think you're asking?"

"We could use your help," Megan said quietly, and chewed on her lip.

There was a pause while Clark took all this in. He was silent as he looked around the table. David met his eyes with confidence. He glanced at Larry and Megan, their faces faintly hopeful. Charlie and Amita, squeezed together on the bench so they touched, regarded him with matching smiles. Alan and Millie looked at him in curious expectation and Don and Liz were keeping their faces carefully blank and neutral, but a slight movement from Liz told him that she'd taken Don's hand and was probably squeezing it.

And that was when it hit him. He was really part of something here. He wasn't an idiot – he'd always known that in some respect – and he knew what they'd done for him. But this … this was final proof that he didn't just have coworkers or good friends. He had something more.

"Hey, count me in," he said.

There were nods of approval from the FBI and CalSci teams. "Ah, glad you saw it our way," Don said, breaking into a smile. "I thought we'd have to twist your arm or something."

"No way. I'm going willingly," Clark declared. "So hey," he went on, standing up, "Thank you all for coming over, and uh, warmin' my house." _And my life_, he added in his head. "_Salud_."

"_Salud_!" everyone else cheered.

They all moved at once and toasted with gusto, causing some spills and laughter. Charlie brushed beer off his shirt, Don licked some stray margarita off his face, and Millie went to go get napkins, although Alan tried to beat her to them. Clark sat back and watched as conversation broke out anew. It was well after sunset by now, and the crickets were peeping in the darkness of the hedges, but all around him there was warmth and light.

_Canta y no llores_ indeed. He finished his mojito in two gulps and got up to mix himself another.

_VALE._

* * *

Final Note: 

_Vale_ (BAH-leh) basically means "That'll do it" in Latin. It is found, among other places, on the last page of the novel _Don Quixote de la Mancha_ by Miguel de Cervantes, one of my favorite works. Hey, this story is called "Canta y no llores." I was supposed to sign off with "Da End?" _Chale._ :D

Also, I must take a second and apologize for the inaccurate genre category of this tale. I have come to realize that I don't write stories – I write soup. Many disparate elements managed to worm their way in to what started out as a simple plot, so thank you for riding along on this mysterious, action-packed, comically romantic drama. Hope you had fun.

Shout Outs:

To Zubeneschamali ("Z") who was with me on this lunatic endeavor from Day One despite her heavy work schedule and her own writing. (People, get out there and read her stuff – it's absolutely amazing.) She has my sincerest thanks for her terrific beta-reading and support.

To the reviewers, particularly those who rocked out with this and hit basically every chapter with enthusiasm and aplomb. You folks all have my deepest gratitude.

To Lady Shelley, for maintaining Running the Numb3rs. Without the site, I would not have known that Liz is 1/16 Cherokee or the name of Colby Granger's hometown, so thank you for your excellent research. :D

To _everybody_, have a spectacular holiday season and keep watching NUMB3RS – even the reruns! As I type this it is December 19, 2007 and I'm hoping that the writers' strike ends soon. And by soon, I mean next Tuesday. (yells) Think you folks can swing that deadline? (checks) They're … Yeah, they're not listening to me. They're still picketing. I think we're on our own here.

Oh, well. I've got some outlines and ideas for more stories (read: nonsense scribbled on napkins and scratch paper), and lots of amazingly talented and prolific authors are publishing every day. So have no fear. We'll all scrape together enough words to tide us over until there's more show.

And … I guess that's it. In the words of Charlie Eppes: "Peace, Love, and Math."

Happy Holidays,

Kiki


End file.
